THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS  < 
CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 


LEONORA  CRANCH  SCOTT 


THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

OF 

CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 

BY  HIS  DAUGHTER 

LEONORA  CRANCH  SCOTT 

With  Illustrations 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 

HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 


1917 


COPYRIGHT,   1917,  BY  LEONORA  CRANCH  SCOTT 
ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED 

Published  March  IQIJ 


PREFACE 

WHEN  my  father  knew  that  he  could  not  live,  he 
directed  me  to  send,  after  his  death,  his  published 
and  unpublished  works  to  Mr.  George  William 
Curtis.  I  did  this,  and  Mr.  Curtis,  although  a  very 
busy  man,  looked  carefully  into  the  manuscripts 
sent  to  him,  having  also  the  assistance  and  judgment 
of  a  collaborates.  He  decided  that  further  publica 
tion  would  add  nothing  to  the  fame  of  his  friend. 

It  was  not  until  some  time  after  that  the  plan  of  a 
volume  of  letters,  connected  by  his  own  words  from 
an  autobiography,  was  decided  upon,  having  its  in 
ception  in  his  own  wish,  perhaps,  to  be  better  known 
to  that  public  who  already  knew  something  of  him 
through  his  published  volumes  and  poems  in  the 
current  literature  of  the  day. 

In  this  Life  and  Letters  I  have  tried  to  give  an  im 
pression  of  the  man  and  his  charm  to  his  friends,  and 
to  show  the  many  sides  of  his  artistic,  literary  genius. 
As  an  seolian  harp  vibrates  to  the  winds  of  heaven 
in  melodies,  joyful,  tender,  or  sad,  so  Cranch's  music 
varied  with  his  mood.  Blows  it  east?  It  brings  forth 
martial  strains.  Or  south?  It  sings  of  the  sea,  the 
woods,  and  the  birds.  West?  Cadenzas  of  sweet 
fancy  and  rollicking  mirth  play  upon  its  strings. 
While  the  north  wind  brings  out  clear,  philosophic 
thought,  deep  and  incisive. 

At  the  instigation  of  his  son-in-law,  Colonel  H.  B. 
Scott,  Mr.  Cranch  wrote  his  Autobiography  for  his 
"children  and  grandchildren,  —  or  for  any  relatives 


vi  PREFACE 

or  intimate  friends  of  the  family  who  may  wish  to 
know  something  of  the  continuous  thread  of  my 
life."  It  was  thought  best  not  to  publish  this  as  a 
whole,  but  to  make  extracts  from  it.  A  man  does  not 
see  himself  at  his  best;  cannot  therefore  do  full  jus 
tice  to  himself  in  an  autobiography.  His  diaries, 
letters,  fleeting  poems,  tell  the  tale  with  a  spon 
taneity  free  from  self -consciousness. 

These  extracts  from  Mr.  Cranch's  diaries  tell  of 
the  days  in  the  ministry;  the  change  from  the 
ministry  to  the  artist  life;  his  marriage,  and  going 
to  Europe  with  George  William  Curtis;  then  life 
abroad  as  an  artist;  the  meeting  with  men  of  letters 
and  brother  artists;  the  return  home  and  life  in  New 
York  and  Cambridge;  a  second  trip  to  Europe,  with 
wife  and  three  children;  the  Cambridge  home  and 
surroundings,  philosophical  talks  in  a  schoolhouse 
and  Sunday  religious  meetings;  the  migrations  to 
New  York,  and  the  peaceful  end  of  a  most  happy 
life  in  his  own  home  in  Ellery  Street,  Cambridge. 

There  is  wound  in  and  out  of  these  annals  the 
continuous  thread  of  the  development  of  his  poetical 
faculty,  the  strongest  voice  of  many  voices  that 
called  to  him.  My  father's  letters  and  those  to  him 
from  Emerson,  Lowell,  Curtis,  the  Brownings,  and 
others  speak  for  themselves.  I  also  quote  from  a 
Memoir  of  Judge  Cranch,  his  father,  which  he  was 
asked  to  write,  —  with  the  permission  of  the  New 
England  Historic-Genealogical  Society. 

Some  one  has  said,  "No  man  is  a  hero  to  his 
valet."  Mr.  Cranch  was  a  hero  in  his  own  house 
hold.  To  his  cook,  his  grocer,  his  plumber,  —  to  his 
children.  I  remember  when  we  were  leaving  Paris 
in  1863,  how  good  old  French  Elisa,  the  housemaid 


PREFACE  vii 

or  bonne,  embraced  my  father  with  tears  streaming 
down  her  cheeks.  He  was  to  her,  and  to  us,  the  em 
bodiment  of  unselfishness,  of  patience,  of  loving- 
kindness,  ever  living  up  to  his  ideals,  which  were 
high. 

I  have  endeavored,  even  with  all  my  love  for  my 
father,  to  see  him  as  a  man,  a  poet,  an  artist,  as  he 
appeared  to  the  outside  world  of  men  and  women  of 
his  day.  If  I  have  done  this  only  partially,  I  shall  be 
well  repaid  for  my  labor. 

L.  C.  S. 


CONTENTS 

I.  ANCESTRY  AND  EARLY  RECOLLECTIONS  ....      3 
II.  STUDENT  AND  PREACHER 18 

III.  WESTERN  EXPERIENCES 31 

IV.  TRANSCENDENTALISM  —  EMERSON  CORRESPOND 

ENCE    49 

V.  PAINTING  —  MARRIAGE 66 

VI.  FIRST  VISIT  TO  EUROPE  —  THE  VOYAGE  —  ROME  .    93 

VII.  PALESTRINA    —    OLEVANO    —    SECOND    ROMAN 

WINTER 119 

VIII.  NAPLES  —  SORRENTO 136 

IX.  FLORENCE  AND  THE  BROWNINGS 150 

X.  NEW  YORK 172 

XI.  TEN  YEARS  IN  EUROPE 200 

XII.  NEW  YORK 254 

XIII.  CAMBRIDGE 278 

XIV.  THIRD  VISIT  TO  EUROPE 306 

XV.  CAMBRIDGE  STUDY — LAST  YEARS 338 

INDEX .387 


xii  ILLUSTRATIONS 

GEORGE  WILLIAM  CURTIS       308 

From  an  oil  sketch  by  Caroline  Amelia  Cranch 

" MILES  OF  STUMPY  TREES" 323 

FRANCIS  BOOTT 326 

DRAWING  FOR  A  BOOK  OF  RHYMES 346 

SKETCH  OF  DEVILS 346 

GEORGE  WILLIAM  CURTIS 370 

From  a  photograph 

"THE  GRASSHOPPER  is  A  BURDEN"  .  380 


THE  LIFE  AND   LETTERS  OF 
CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE   CRANCH 


CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 


CHAPTER  I 

ANCESTRY  AND  EARLY  RECOLLECTIONS 

CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH  was  born  in  Alexan-  » 
dria,  District  of  Columbia  (now  in  Virginia),  March 
8,  1813,  the  youngest  son  hi  a  family  of  thirteen 
children.   In  his  Autobiography  he  says:  — 

My  first  recollections  date  from  the  house  in  Washing 
ton  Street,  when  I  was  about  four  or  five  years  old.  I  was 
taught  to  read  by  my  sister  Nancy.  When  she  was  eight 
or  nine  years  of  age,  she  died.  Every  one  loved  her. 
About  this  time  my  sister  Mary  also  died.  She  had  been 
married  to  her  cousin  Richard  Norton  about  a  year,  and 
died  soon  after  confinement,  with  a  daughter,  who  also 
died.  About  a  year  later  Mr.  Norton  died,  from  some 
virulent  fever  badly  treated  by  an  ignorant  physician. 
The  deaths  of  these  two  elder  sisters  were  my  first  great 
griefs,  and  made  a  deep  impression  on  me.  .  .  . 

At  this  time  I  was  sent  to  a  large  day  school  kept  by 
a  man  named  Bonner.  He  was  a  great  tyrant,  and  was 
noted  for  devising  all  sorts  of  strange,  and  sometimes 
cruel,  punishments  for  the  boys. 

While  occupying  our  house  in  Washington  Street,  our 
family  used  to  pass  the  summer  on  a  farm  in  Virginia, 
about  four  miles  to  the  southwest,  which  went  by  the 
name  of  "  Suffield."  The  house  was  a  small,  plain,  wooden 
farmhouse.  The  farm,  if  I  remember,  consisted  of  very 
poor,  clayey  land.  My  brother  Richard  was  the  farmer. 


4      JC.fiBISTOPHER  PEARSE   CRANCH 

V\7e  raised  vegetables,  rye,  wheat,  oats,  etc.  I  remember 
no  cultivated  fruit  on  the  place  but  small  apples.  There 
were  plenty  of  fine  wild  blackberries,  and  I  think  some 
huckleberries.  We  had  two  or  three  farm-horses,  and 
among  my  early  recollections  were  the  excursions  I  used 
to  make,  with  my  brothers  John  and  Edward,  —  one  six, 
the  other  four  years  older  than  myself,  —  to  the  apple 
trees,  where  we  gathered  the  apples  in  bags,  and  brought 
them  home  on  horseback. 

We  boys  used  to  go  about,  barefooted,  a  great  part  of 
the  summer.  Our  faithful  companion  everywhere  was  our 
dog  Watch.  He  was  a  beautiful,  white  dog,  with  a  fine 
head,  and  handsome  brown  eyes,  soft  and  curly  hair,  and 
a  splendid,  bushy  tail.  He  seemed  to  be  a  mixture  of  the 
setter  and  the  Newfoundland.  He  was  the  most  honest, 
the  most  affectionate,  the  most  playful,  the  most  brave, 
the  most  faithful  creature  that  ever  honored  the  canine 
race.  He  was  just  the  age  of  my  sister  Abby,  and  lived 
with  us  seventeen  years,  dying  at  last  of  old  age,  long 
after  we  removed  to  Washington. 

Our  family  at  this  tune  consisted  of  my  father  and 
mother,  my  brothers  William,  Richard,  John,  and  Ed 
ward,  our  sister  Elizabeth,  about  eight  years  older  than 
I,  —  myself,  and  two  younger  sisters,  Abby  and  Mar 
garet. 

In  1823  we  moved  to  another  part  of  Alexandria,  which 
went  by  the  name  of  the  "Village."  The  house  was  a 
large  and  pretty  frame  dwelling,  in  the  southern  suburbs 
of  the  town,  not  far  from  Hunting  Creek,  a  branch  of  the 
Potomac  River.  On  the  southern  side  of  the  house  was  a 
veranda  of  two  stories,  overlooking  a  yard  with  a  semi 
circle  of  tall  Lombardy  poplars,  a  well  of  water,  and  a 
large  garden  with  an  abundance  of  fruit  and  flowers. 
The  roses  were  particularly  plentiful  and  fine.  In  the 


ANCESTRY  5 

centre  of  this  garden  was  a  large  summer  arbor,  with 
seats,  and  covered  with  multiflora  roses.  We  had  straw 
berries,  gooseberries,  cherries,  damsons,  peaches,  and 
fine  winter  pippins.  At  the  bottom  of  the  garden  was  a 
small  building  used  by  my  father  as  a  library  and  law- 
office.  It  was  here  that  my  brother  Edward  and  I  used  to 
copy  the  pictures  in  India  ink  out  of  Rees's  Cyclopaedia. 
On  the  left  of  the  garden  was  a  barnyard  and  stable. 
From  the  upper  story  of  the  veranda  there  was  a  fine 
view  of  the  majestic  Potomac,  and  the  sails  constantly 
gliding  up  and  down  the  river.  It  was  a  beautiful  place, 
and  to  this  day  it  mingles  with  my  dreams.  But  the  situ 
ation  was  not  healthy,  all  that  region  near  the  Creek 
being  subject  to  fever  and  ague,  at  which  I  took  my  turn 
along  with  the  others. 

A  third  severe  family  bereavement  was  the  death 
of  his  brother  Richard,  who  was  drowned  while 
making  a  topographical  survey  on  Lake  Erie,  near 
Meadville.  Of  it  the  Autobiography  says :  — 

The  party  were  on  the  Lake  when  there  came  up  a 
sudden  squall.  The  boat  was  capsized  and  my  brother, 
though  a  good  swimmer,  was  drowned  before  he  could 
reach  the  shore.  ...  I  was  then  twelve  years  old.  Our 
brother  was  about  twenty -five.  ...  I  never  shall  forget 
what  a  dark  day  that  was,  when  the  tidings  of  this  event 
reached  us.  I  can  well  remember  how  all  the  family  were 
plunged  into  grief  and  tears.  I  can  see  even  now,  my 
uncle  James  Greenleaf  (then  making  us  a  visit)  sitting  in 
silence,  with  one  arm  around  each  of  my  younger  sisters. 
We  all  loved  our  brother  Richard  dearly.  Our  father  and 
mother  looked  upon  him  with  just  pride  in  his  noble  and 
manly  qualities.  He  was  the  strongest  and  most  active 
of  the  family.  I  remember  seeing  him  lift  three  fifty- 


6       CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 

six-pound  weights  with  his  little  finger.  He  was  a  good 
swimmer  and  skater.  He  was  fond  of  agriculture;  he 
had  a  great  deal  of  mechanical  talent  and  used  to  con 
struct  little  machines  of  various  sorts.  I  remember  his 
making  some  sky-rockets  and  shooting  them  off.  He  was 
affectionate  and  upright  and  a  great  favorite  wherever  he 
was  known.  .  .  .  He  would  take  us  with  him  to  Washing 
ton —  six  or  seven  miles  off  —  to  see  the  Inauguration 
of  John  Quincy  Adams  as  President,  in  the  Capitol. 

I  shall  always  remember  this  pleasant  house  at  the 
Village  as  the  happy  suburban  home,  where,  in  spite  of 
these  domestic  sorrows,  we  children  found  such  ample 
scope  for  play,  such  delight  in  our  beautiful  garden,  such 
amusement  with  the  dogs,  the  chickens,  the  ducks,  the 
hayloft,  and  the  rural  surroundings. 

It  was  there  I  first  began  to  amuse  myself  with  draw 
ing,  and  in  learning  to  play  on  the  flute.  And  it  was  there 
that  I  attempted  my  first  versification,  a  paraphrase 
from  Ossian. 

My  father  was  tall  and  erect,  with  marked  features, 
and  was  sometimes  taken  for  General  Andrew  Jackson, 
but  there  was  no  real  resemblance.  He  was  serious  and 
somewhat  taciturn;  of  a  quiet  temperament;  inclined  to 
melancholy;  but  serene  and  self-contained,  with  a  mild 
and  sweet  expression  on  his  face,  much  aided  by  his 
steadfast,  religious  faith.  He  was  devotedly  fond  of  chil 
dren,  and  was  like  the  still  water  that  runs  deep,  in  his 
warm  sympathy  and  affection.  He  was  a  conscientious 
and  hard  worker;  was  subject  to  headaches,  but  usually 
enjoyed  good  health,  and  died  at  the  ripe  old  age  of 
eighty-six,  having  been  fifty  years  on  the  bench  of  the 
District  Court.  Between  him  and  my  mother  there  was 
always  a  devoted  attachment.  My  mother's  tempera 
ment  was  more  cheerful  and  hopeful  than  his.  From  my 


ANCESTRY  7 

father  we  children  stood  somewhat  at  a  distance  in  our 
lighter  talk  and  laughter.  But  our  mother  was  full  of 
fun,  and  we  never  stood  in  the  least  awe  of  her.  We  con 
fided  to  her  all  our  joys  and  sorrows.  She  must  have  been 
quite  pretty  when  young,  and  I  think  my  father  might 
have  been  considered  handsome. 

My  mother  was  very  industrious  and  regular,  and  a 
good  housekeeper.  Both  our  parents  were  early  risers. 
My  father,  from  my  earliest  recollection,  held  family 
prayers,  reading  from  the  Episcopal  Prayer-Book,  al-  / 
though  he  was  a  Unitarian,  while  we  all  kneeled.  We 
were  all  expected  to  attend  church  regularly.  A  trace  of 
Puritanic  tradition  may  have  been  seen  here  and  there. 
Sunday  was  strictly  kept,  and  there  never  was  any  card- 
playing.  Whist  was  a  game  I  learned  some  time  after  I 
began  preaching,  and  played  it  on  Saturday  nights.  The 
only  games  we  knew  in  the  house  were  chess,  backgam 
mon,  and  checkers.  My  father  was  fond  of  chess,  but 
despised  backgammon  as  a  game  of  chance;  while  my 
uncle  James  Greenleaf ,  who  spent  almost  all  his  evenings 
with  us,  was  devoted  to  this  rattling  game.  I  don't  think 
my  mother  ever  played  at  any  game.  She  was  usually  too 
busy  sewing  or  darning  stockings,  or  attending  to  the 
various  duties  of  housekeeping. 

In  Mr.  Cranch's  memoir  of  his  father,  written  for 
the  New  England  Historic-Genealogical  Society,  he 
says:  — 

It  is  fitting  that  I  should  trace  something  of  the  honor 
able  genealogy  of  the  subject  of  this  memoir.  The  blood 
and  the  principles  of  Puritan  ancestors  were  in  him  by 
pure  descent.  On  the  paternal  side  they  were  all  English 
men.  His  great-great-grandfather,  Richard  Cranch,  the 
first  of  his  name  of  whom  anything  is  known,  was  said  to 


8       CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 

have  been  a  rigid  and  uncompromising  Puritan.  His 
great-grandfather,  Andrew  Cranch,  carried  on  the  busi 
ness  of  serge-making,  largely,  in  the  town  of  Kingsbridge, 
Devonshire,  where  were  born  his  son  John,  and  John's 
son  Richard,  the  father  of  William  [Christopher's  father]. 
These  ancestors  were  all  men  of  worthy  character.  In 
religion  they  were  dissenters.  , 

Of  the  Honorable  Richard  Cranch,  my  grandfather,  a 
brief  account  must  here  be  given.  He  was  born  in  1726,  in 
Kingsbridge,  Devonshire,  came  to  America  in  1746,  at 
the  age  of  twenty,  and  settled  hi  the  old  towns  of  Brain- 
tree,  Quincy,  and  Randolph.  He  was  a  watchmaker,  and 
for  some  years  pursued  this  business  in  Braintree.  He 
was  also  postmaster  of  the  town,  held  a  seat  for  a  number 
of  years  as  representative  in  the  General  Court,  and  af 
terwards  as  senator  of  the  Commonwealth  of  Massachu 
setts.  He  was  also  for  some  years  one  of  the  judges  of  the 
Court  of  Common  Pleas.  Though  self-educated,  he  was  a 
scholar  of  wide  attainments,  and  was  especially  learned 
in  theology.  He  was  the  intimate  friend  of  John  Adams, 
and  of  the  Reverend  Doctor  Mayhew,  and  the  associate 
of  several  distinguished  men  of  his  time.  He  is  frequently 
spoken  of  with  affection  and  respect  in  John  Adams's 
Diary.  In  one  place,  Mr.  Adams  says:  "Was  there  ever  a 
wit  who  had  much  humanity  and  compassion,  much  ten 
derness  of  nature?  .  .  .  Mr.  Cranch  has  wit  and  is  tender 
and  gentle."  In  another  place  he  speaks  of  Mr.  Cranch's 
"mathematical,  metaphysical,  mechanical,  systematical 
head."  And  again  he  mentions  him  as  "the  friend  of  my 
youth,  as  well  as  of  my  riper  years,  whose  tender  heart 
sympathizes  with  his  fellow  creatures  in  every  affliction 
and  distress." 

He  was  an  ardent  patriot  during  the  Revolution.  In 
1780  he  received  the  honorary  degree  of  A.M.  from 


ANCESTRY  9 

Harvard  College.  He  was  tall,  grave,  and  dignified;  and 
in  his  features  is  said  to  have  borne  a  remarkable  resem 
blance  to  the  portraits  of  John  Locke,  the  philosopher. 

In  1762  Richard  Cranch  was  married  to  Mary  Smith, 
elder  daughter  of  the  Reverend  William  Smith,  of  Wey- 
mouth,  Massachusetts,  whose  other  daughter,  Abigail, 
afterwards  married  John  Adams. 

To  Richard  and  Mary  Cranch  were  born  three 
children,  —  Elizabeth,  who  married  the  Reverend 
Jacob  Norton;  Lucy,  who  married  her  cousin,  Mr. 
John  Greenleaf ;  and  William,  their  only  son. 

Judge  Richard  Cranch  and  his  wife  lived  chiefly 
in  Quincy,  and  died  there  at  advanced  ages,  within 
a  day  of  each  other,  in  October,  1811.  This  was 
in  the  old  Cranch  and  Greenleaf  homestead,  a  plain, 
large,  frame  house  with  an  avenue  of  fine  elms  in 
front  of  it,  kept  up  in  the  family  for  three  genera 
tions  as  the  old  Greenleaf  home. 

William  Cranch  was  born  in  Weymouth,  in  1769. 
His  education  seems  to  have  been  entirely  at  home 
under  his  mother's  tuition  and  superintendence, 
until  he  was  put  under  the  charge  of  his  uncle,  the 
Reverend  John  Shaw,  of  Haverhill,  to  be  fitted  by 
him  for  college.  In  1784  he  entered  the  Freshman 
class  at  Harvard.  His  friend  and  cousin,  John  i 
Quincy  Adams,  was  his  classmate. 

A  little  letter  from  William  at  Harvard  in  his 
eighteenth  year,  to  his  father,  bears  witness  to  his 
studies:  — 

HOND.  Sm :  —  7V 

I  intended  to  have  walked  to  Boston  to-day,  but  hav 
ing  an  invitation  to  dine  at  Mrs.  Forbes',  I  determined  to 
postpone  it.  If  you  could  spare  me  a  little  money  and 


10     CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 

send  it  by  my  chum,  who  will  bring  you  this,  I  should  be 
exceedingly  obliged.  If  it  is  not  convenient,  Sir,  I  beg  you 
would  not  send  it,  for  I  am  in  no  immediate  want  of  it. 
I  fear,  Sir,  you  think  my  demands  too  frequent.  If  it  were 
in  my  power  to  make  them  less  so,  I  should  certainly  do  it. 

There  is  an  Exhibition  appointed  for  some  time  in  next 
month.  There  will  be  a  Latin  oration,  by  whom  is  not  yet 
determined,  a  forensic,  a  conference  upon  Law,  Physic, 
and  Divinity,  by  J.  Q.  Adams,  Moses  Little,  and  Nathan 
iel  Freeman,  and  an  English  oration  by  Bosenger  Foster. 
A  Syllogistic  Disputation,  a  Greek  oration,  a  Hebrew 
oration,  and  a  Dialogue.  The  Corporation  have  met, 
but  have  not  yet  determined  about  the  Commencement. 
If  they  do  not  grant  our  request,  we  shall  petition  to  the 
Board  of  Overseers. 

With  every  sentiment  of  duty  and  affection,  believe 
me  your 

Obedient  son, 

W.  CRANCH. 
THURSDAY  MORNING, 

RICHARD  CRANCH,  Esq. 

In  the  memoir  of  his  father,  just  quoted  Mr. 
Cranch,  says:  — 

The  life  of  a  judge,  however  eminent  and  however  well 
appreciated  and  honored  by  the  members  of  the  legal  pro 
fession,  is  not  one  which  usually  makes  a  glittering  show 
to  the  public  eye.  How  little  is  known,  outside  the  courts 
and  law-offices,  of  the  learning,  the  intellectual  grasp,  the 
patience,  the  industry,  the  conscience,  the  courage,  the 
clear,  calm  power  of  detecting  principles  amid  the  tedious 
detail  of  facts  and  precedents,  and  of  thoroughly  winnow 
ing  truth  from  error,  which  are  required  in  this  profes 
sion!  Such  acquirements  and  qualities  make  little  noise 


ANCESTRY  11 

in  the  world;  but  like  the  silent  forces  of  nature,  they  are 
none  the  less  effective  and  beneficent. 

The  Honorable  William  Cranch,  LL.D.,  Chief  Judge  of  < 
the  United  States  Circuit  Court  of  the  District  of  Colum 
bia,  is  a  name  well  known  among  lawyers  and  jurists, 
through  his  Reports  of  the  Supreme  Court,  and  the  cases 
in  his  own  court  for  forty  years;  and  especially  dis 
tinguished  in  the  district,  where,  for  over  forty  years  of 
his  life,  he  held  his  office,  and  resided,  and  where  he  died, 
full  of  years  and  honors.  But  apart  from  his  legal  and 
judiciary  connections,  he  lived  a  comparatively  retired 
life,  uncheckered  by  any  remarkable  events.  He  was  one 
of  that  noble  fraternity  of  quiet  thinkers  and  workers,  of 
all  times  and  professions,  who  are  content  to  do  their 
duty  thoroughly  and  well,  careless  of  the  shining  honors 
of  fame;  or  else  who  fail  to  achieve  those  honors,  because 
by  temperament  too  unambitious  to  grasp  them,  or  from 
love  of  their  work,  and  conscientiousness  in  the  discharge 
of  it,  too  devoted  to  their  daily  tasks  to  weigh  their  la 
bors  against  their  deserts,  to  consecrate  their  days  to 
some  useful  but  unapplauded  sphere  of  life. 

In  1787  William  Cranch  graduated  with  honors;  and 
the  same  year  commenced  the  study  of  law  in  Boston, 
with  the  Honorable  Thomas  Dawes,  one  of  the  judges  of 
the  Supreme  Court  of  Massachusetts.  ...  In  1790  he  was 
admitted  to  practice  law  in  the  Court  of  Common  Pleas, 
at  the  age  of  twenty-one.  He  began  practice  in  Braintree, 
but  afterwards  removed  to  Haverhill,  where  he  boarded 
in  Mr.  Shaw's  family,  and  attended  the  courts  in  Essex 
County,  and  at  Exeter,  Portsmouth,  and  other  places  in 
New  Hampshire.  In  1793  he  was  admitted  to  practice 
in  the  Supreme  Court. 

His  prospects  now  encouraged  him  to  make  preparation 
for  domestic  life  in  Washington;  and  on  April  6,  1795,  he 


12      CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE   CRANCH 

was  married  in  Boston  to  Miss  Ann  (Nancy)  Greenleaf, 
the  youngest  daughter,  in  a  large  family,  of  William 
Greenleaf,  Esq.,  merchant  of  Boston,  who  had  been, 
during  the  Revolutionary  War,  high  sheriff  of  Suffolk 
County,  including  Boston.  She  was  the  sister  of  Mr. 
James  Greenleaf,  also  of  Mrs.  Judge  Dawes  and  of  Mrs. 
Noah  Webster.  Returning  early  in  the  summer  to  Wash 
ington  with  my  mother,  he  commenced  housekeeping 
under  happy  auspices,  and  worked  diligently.  .  .  . 

Two  years  later  he  received  a  proposal  from  Mr. 
Noah  Webster,  that  they  should  together  undertake  a 
daily  paper  in  Boston,  .  .  .  and  that  my  father  should  be 
the  editor.  In  this  proposal  he  held  out  inducements  that 
seemed  promising.  The  temptation  to  return  to  Boston 
and  the  vicinity  of  his  family  and  friends  was,  for  a  little 
while,  very  strong;  but  on  mature  consideration,  and  with 
advice  of  competent  persons,  he  concluded  to  abandon 
the  idea,  and  determined  to  remain  in  Washington  and 
pursue  the  practice  of  law.  His  father,  with  whom  he 
corresponded  on  all  matters  of  moment,  concurred  in  his 
determination,  though  it  would  have  been  an  inexpressi 
ble  pleasure  and  comfort  to  have  his  son,  to  whom  he  was 
so  tenderly  attached,  near  him  again  in  his  declining 
years.  .  .  . 

Notwithstanding  many  temporary  discouragements  he 
steadily  applied  himself  to  his  business,  and  soon  had  the 
satisfaction  of  gaining  two  cases  in  Annapolis.  The  same 
year  he  was  appointed,  by  President  Adams,  one  of  the 
commissioners  of  public  buildings,  upon  the  recommenda 
tion  of  the  largest  part  of  the  proprietors  of  the  city,  with 
a  salary  of  sixteen  hundred  dollars.  "But  how  long  the 
office  will  continue,"  he  writes,  "is  uncertain."  He  adds: 
"The  only  subject  of  regret  which  the  circumstance  sug 
gests  is,  that  it  will  call  forth  the  calumnies  of  malevo- 


ANCESTRY  13 

lence  upon  the  President.  But  it  will  be  remembered  that 
President  Washington  appointed  Mrs.  Washington's 
son-in-law,  Dr.  Stuart,  to  the  same  office,  —  so  that  a 
precedent  is  not  wanting." 

In  1801  Mr.  William  Cranch  was  appointed  by 
the  President,  John  Adams,  Assistant  Judge  of  the 
newly  constituted  Circuit  Court  of  the  District  of 
Columbia;  William  Kilty  being  Chief  Judge,  and 
James  Marshall  (brother  of  the  celebrated  Chief 
Justice  Marshall  of  the  Supreme  Court)  the  other 
Assistant  Judge.  In  1805,  very  much  to  his  surprise, 
—  for  he  was  a  warm  Federalist  in  his  politics, — 
Judge  Cranch  was  appointed  by  Mr.  Jefferson  to 
the  office  of  Chief  Judge  of  the  Circuit  Court,  at  a 
salary  of  twenty-five  hundred  dollars.  His  labors 
in  the  office  were,  through  the  whole  of  his  long 
judicial  life,  exceedingly  arduous.  On  August  15, 
1806,  he  apologizes  for  not  having  written  to  his 
father,  by  stating  that  he  had  just  finished  a  ses 
sion  of  five  weeks  at  Alexandria,  and  that  since 
the  fourth  Monday  of  November  last  he  had  been 
twenty-nine  weeks  in  court. 

In  1829  the  degree  of  LL.D.  was  conferred 
upon  him  by  Harvard  College,  —  a  long-deserved 
and  too-long-deferred  honor.  He  was  admitted  an 
honorary  member  of  the  New  England  Historic- 
Genealogical  Society,  March  15,  1847.  In  1852  he 
published  in  six  volumes  his  "Reports,  Civil  and 
Criminal,  in  the  Circuit  Court  of  the  District  of 
Columbia,"  covering  forty  years  —  from  1801  to 
1841.  His  son  says:  — 

Nature  seems  to  have  intended  William  Cranch  for  a   , 
judge.  His  patience  and  perseverance  were  only  matched 


14      CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 

by  his  love  of  clearness  and  order.  He  would  take  pleas 
ure  in  unraveling  a  snarl  of  string  and  untying  hard  knots. 
He  had  a  mechanical  turn,  and  liked  to  take  his  old  fam 
ily  clock  to  pieces,  to  be  oiled  and  cleaned,  and  put  to 
gether  again.  While  in  college  he  devoted  a  good  deal  of 
time  to  mathematical  problems,  and  even  went  so  far  as 
to  calculate  an  eclipse.  These  qualities,  combined  with 
his  sensitive  musical  ear,  would  sometimes  lead  him  to 
spend,  on  a  day  of  leisure,  a  morning  in  tuning  his  piano 
or  parlor  organ,  in  a  very  thorough  and  methodical  way. 
These  characteristic  traits,  in  union  with  the  higher  ones 
of  thoroughness  and  exactness  of  knowledge,  of  con 
scientious  and  discriminating  judgment  in  difficult  cases, 
of  singular  ability  to  see  the  main  facts  and  authority, 
and  to  detect  always  the  principle  and  spirit  of  the  law, 
made  him,  by  nature  and  by  long  training,  a  judge  whose 
decisions  have  always  held  a  deserved  reputation  for 
soundness.  The  best  proof  of  this  is,  that  during  more 
than  fifty  years  of  service  on  the  bench,  it  is  well  known 
that  not  one  of  his  decisions  was  reversed  by  the  Supreme 
Court. 

He  was  a  hard  and  steady  worker.  He  rose  early,  often 
being  up  before  sunrise  in  the  winter;  and  when  not  on 
the  bench,  he  was  usually  engaged  at  work  in  his  office, 
frequently  until  near  midnight.  .  .  .  He  liked  to  read  the 
best  English  classics.  Shakespeare  and  Milton  were 
especial  favorites  with  him.  He  seldom  read  a  novel. 
But  he  had  a  keen  relish  for  poetry,  old  and  new.  His 
enthusiastic  love  of  the  beautiful  in  nature  and  in  art, 
was  a  marked  trait.  He  delighted  in  pictures,  in  sculp 
ture,  in  flowers,  and  fine  sunsets.  But  his  chief  recrea 
tion  was  music.  He  played  on  the  organ  and  the  flute. 
The  latter  instrument  he  abandoned  in  his  old  age,  and 
devoted  himself  to  his  parlor  organ,  on  which  he  played 


ANCESTRY  15 

chiefly  sacred  music,  and  in  which  he  took  the  deepest 
delight. 

His  temperament  was  tranquil,  grave,  and  serious.  He 
would  often  smile,  but  seldom  laughed  aloud.  He  seldom 
joked,  but  he  relished  a  good  joke  from  others.  His  de 
meanor  was  courteous  and  dignified.  He  was  a  gentleman 
of  the  old  school.  He  never  hesitated  to  carry  home  his 
own  loaded  basket  from  the  market;  and  sometimes  he 
would  assist  some  poor  old  woman  on  the  road  in  carrying 
hers.  He  liked  to  split  his  own  wood  and  make  his  own 
fire;  and  in  sight  of  all  his  neighbors  would  mend  his  own 
pump,  or  his  gate,  or  his  garden  fence.  His  heart  was  as 
tender  as  a  woman's.  His  domestic  affections  were  deep. 
Nothing  could  exceed  his  love  as  an  affectionate  husband 
and  father.  The  natural  kindness  of  his  disposition  ex 
tended  itself  to  his  friends,  neighbors,  relatives,  and  even 
strangers,  and  would  often  take  the  form  of  an  utterly 
unprecedented  hospitality,  even  when  his  domestic  cir 
cumstances  obliged  the  greatest  domestic  economy.  .  .  . 
This  almost  feminine  sympathy  never  interfered  with 
the  just  decisions  to  which  his  duties  so  often  called  him. 
His  sense  of  justice  was  strong,  and  though  tempered  by 
clemency,  never  wavered  from  its  upright  attitude. 

His  character  was  genuinely  and  deeply  religious.  He 
inherited  this  trait  from  his  ancestors,  and  it  was  culti 
vated  and  strengthened  through  his  life.  .  .  .  He  seldom 
taught  by  precept,  but  always  by  example,  that:  — 

"Our  days  should  be 
Bound  each  to  each  by  natural  piety." 

My  brother  Edward  writes:  "I  knew  more  than  any 
other  of  the  children,  of  father's  official  life  and  labors, 
because  I  studied  law  for  three  years  in  his  chambers  at 
the  City  Hall  at  Washington.  I  don't  believe  he  ever 


16      CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 

spent  an  idle  hour  in  his  life.  His  life  was  uniform.  He 
never  dropped  out  of  line  to  go  in  search  of  events.  His 
great  idea  was  duty.  His  recreations  were  music,  chess, 
study,  contemplation.  He  prayed  much  when  alone.  He 
repeated  old  poems  to  himself  in  his  walks.  But  for  ten 
hours  every  day  for  sixty  years  he  was  in  public  and 
working  for  the  public.  He  was  working  for  the  right, 
and  antagonizing  the  wrong;  and  he  kept  the  waters  pure 
about  him." 

His  conscientious  conception  of  the  legitimate  func 
tions  of  a  judge  led  him  to  reject  all  offers  of  fees  for  any 
extraneous  or  supererogatory  work,  where  he  would  have 
been  justified  in  accepting  them.  The  consequence  was 
that  he  was  besieged  at  all  hours,  even  out  of  his  office, 
by  people  of  all  sorts  who  came  to  have  deeds  or  other 
law  documents  acknowledged  gratis  by  him,  rather  than 
by  a  lawyer,  who  would  charge  them  a  fee.  And  I  believe 
he  never,  at  any  hour  of  the  day,  refused  a  single  one  of 
these  people. 

Judge  Cranch,  though  not  an  abolitionist,  was  no 
apologist  for  slavery.  It  was  an  institution  abhorrent  to 
his  nature.  But  so  long  as  it  was  sanctioned  by  constitu 
tion  and  law,  he  was  bound  not  to  interfere  with  the  ex 
isting  order  of  things.  Whenever  he  could  befriend  a 
slave  without  violating  the  laws,  he  was  ever  ready  to  do 
so.  He  saw  that  a  storm  was  approaching,  but  fortu 
nately  for  his  peace  of  mind,  he  was  not  fated  to  see 
how,  a  few  years  later,  it  burst  upon  the  country  in  the 
horrors  of  civil  war. 

In  the  old  Congressional  graveyard  in  Washing 
ton  are  buried  Judge  Cranch  and  his  wife.  These 
are  the  inscriptions  on  the  plain  stones: — j 


NANCY   GREENLEAF   CRANCH 

Pencil  sketch  by  John  Cranch 


ANCESTRY  17 

WILLIAM  CRANCH 

Chief  Judge  of  District  of  Columbia. 
Born  July  17,  1769,  died  Sept.  1,  1855. 

An  able,  learned,  diligent  and  upright  magistrate:  Mild, 
dignified  and  firm.  A  tender  husband  and  Father.  A  faithful 
friend.  A  benefactor  of  the  poor,  and  a  sincere  Christian. 

"Blessed  are  the  pure  in  heart 
For  they  shall  see  God." 

NANCY  CRANCH 

daughter  of  William  Greenleaf,  Esq.,  late  of  Boston 
and  wife  of  William  Cranch,  Chf.  J.,  D.  C. 

Born  June  5,  1772,  died  full  of  the  hope  of  glory, 
Sept.  16,  1849. 

"Valde  Deflenda." 


CHAPTER  II 

STUDENT  AND   PREACHER 

IN  1829  Christopher  Pearse  Cranch  entered  Colum 
bian  College  in  the  third  Freshman  term.  There 
were  no  athletics  in  those  days,  consequently  the 
walk  of  three  miles  in  the  outskirts  of  Washing 
ton,  was  both  agreeable  and  salutary. 

My  father,  in  his  Autobiography,  says:  — 

The  president  was  a  Baptist  minister,  Dr.  Chapin,  a 
most  excellent  man.  There  was  but  a  small  number  of 
students,  and  the  course  of  study  was  not  particularly 
extensive  or  thorough.  My  brothers,  John  and  Edward, 
had  graduated  there.  My  father  wished  me  to  have  a 
college  education,  but  his  means  did  not  permit  the  ex 
pense  of  sending  me  to  an  institution  away  from  home. 
There  I  remained  till  1832,  when  at  the  age  of  nineteen 
I  took  my  degree. 

As  I  lived  near  the  Capitol,  I  went  often  to  hear  the 
great  speakers  in  the  Senate  and  House  of  Representa 
tives.  I  remember  hearing  speeches  from  John  Randolph, 
Clay,  Webster,  John  Quincy  Adams,  Benton,  Calhoun, 
and  others.  I  had  the  good  fortune  to  hear  a  great  por 
tion  of  Mr.  Webster's  famous  reply  to  Mr.  Hayne.  I  was 
very  much  impressed  with  Webster's  eloquence. 

After  leaving  college  the  question  was,  what  profession 
to  adopt.  My  father  seemed  to  think  I  ought  to  choose 
one  of  the  three  learned  professions.  For  the  law,  I  had 
no  taste  or  ability.  And  my  brother  Edward  was  study 
ing  law  at  my  father's  desire;  one  lawyer  was  enough. 
For  a  while  I  thought  of  medicine,  but  not  very  seriously. 


STUDENT  AND  PREACHER  19 

My  cousin  William  G.  Eliot,  Jr.,1  who  afterwards  mar 
ried  my  sister  Abby,  was  a  divinity  student  at  Cam 
bridge,  and  urged  me  to  the  study  of  theology.  Of  the 
three  professions,  this  was  most  to  my  taste;  and  as  it 
accorded  with  my  father's  inclination,  I  decided  to  go  to 
Cambridge  and  the  Theological  School.  I  studied  a  little 
German  with  an  old  Swiss  gentleman  who  taught  me  a 
very  bad  pronunciation. 

In  the  summer  of  1832, 1  left  home  for  Cambridge.  .  .  . 
At  this  time  my  brother  John  was  in  Italy  studying  art. 
My  brother  Edward  had  gone  to  Cincinnati  to  practice 
law.  I  took  a  room  in  Divinity  Hall,  Cambridge,  and  be 
gan  my  studies  with  a  good  deal  of  interest.  [His  class 
mates  were:]  C.  A.  Bartol,  Charles  T.  Brooks,  Edgar 
Buckingham,  A.  M.  Bridge,  A.  Frost,  Samuel  Osgood, 
John  Parkman,  H.  G.  O.  Phipps,  George  Rice,  and  J. 
Thurston.  .  .  . 

Sunday,  June  16, 1833,  my  father  got  up  at  half- 
past  four,  and  having  made  arrangements  with  a 
brother  minister  to  take  his  Sunday-School  class, 
went  to  the  Charlestown  bridge  to  meet  his  cousin 
Richard  Greenleaf  in  a  gig,  and  ride  out  to  Quincy 
to  meet  his  father,  Judge  Cranch,  and  his  mother, 
who  were  making  a  visit  to  New  England,  where 
they  had  not  been  for  thirty  years. 

In  his  journal  he  says:  "A  fine  view  from  the  top 
of  the  hill.  .  .  .  Found  them  at  breakfast  at  Quincy. 
Father  was  there  and  looks  very  well."  After  dinner 
at  Uncle  Daniel  Greenleaf's  and  the  afternoon  ser 
vice,  the  second  Church  service,  to  which  he  had 
gone  ".  .  .  walked  with  father  across  the  Quincy  hills. 
He  pointed  out  to  me  his  father's  grounds,  where 
1  Dr.  William  Greenleaf  Eliot,  of  St.  Louis,  Missouri. 


20     CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 

the  house,  garden,  etc.,  were.  It  was  extremely  in 
teresting  to  be  on  the  very  spot,  the  very  scenes  of  his 
boyish  days  with  him,  after  so  long  an  absence  from 
them.  Met  J.  Q.  Adams  in  our  walk.  It  was  a  fine 
afternoon  and  we  had  a  noble  view  of  the  harbor." 

Mr.  Cranch's  days  were  spent  thus  at  this  date. 
Up  at  half-past  five,  sometimes  an  hour  earlier, 
studied  Hebrew,  attended  prayers,  walked  to  break 
fast,  pitched  quoits,  studied  and  read,  attended 
Dr.  Ware's  exercise  on  the  "Resurrection  of  Christ," 
recited  Hebrew,  had  tea,  and  passed  the  evening 
in  a  friend's  room  singing,  or  in  social  converse. 
Once  a  week  they  had  practising  of  elocution,  which 
they  called  "explosions."  Some  of  the  students  held 
a  Sunday-School  class  in  the  State  Prison,  where 
they  found  some  interesting  men.  The  atmosphere 
was  religious  and  prayerful,  and  my  father  earnestly 
strove  to  work  conscientiously.  His  great  diffidence 
kept  him  from  doing  justice  to  himself.  He  could 
always  do  better  with  his  pen  than  in  extempora 
neous  speech.  But  he  nevertheless  persisted. 

There  were  many  fine  preachers  who  came  to  them, 
and  the  studious  life  suited  his  temperament.  Or- 
ville  Dewey,  Henry  W.  Bellows,  William  Henry 
Channing,  Ezra  Stiles  Gannett,  James  Freeman 
Clarke,  Theodore  Parker,  and  others  spoke  to  them. 
And  these  were  memorable  occasions. 

My  father's  good  friend,  John  S.  Dwight,  was  in 
his  class  for  a  year;  going  to  Meadville,  Pennsyl 
vania,  returning  again  later  to  Harvard.  He  was 
therefore  in  the  class  after  Mr.  Cranch,  where  also 
was  Theodore  Parker.  The  instructors  were  Dr. 
Henry  Ware,  Sr.,  Dr.  Henry  Ware,  Jr.,  and  Dr. 
John  G.  Palfrey. 


STUDENT  AND  PREACHER  21 

Mr.  Cranch  went  home  to  Washington  in  sum 
mer  vacations,  but  spent  some  time  in  Boston  where 
he  had  relatives,  and  a  good  deal  of  time  in  the  home 
of  his  grandfather,  Richard  Cranch,  and  of  his 
uncle  and  aunt,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  John  Greenleaf,  in 
Quincy.  Their  daughter  Mary,  Mrs.  George  Minot 
Dawes,  was  like  a  sister,  and  nursed  him  one  sum 
mer  in  the  old  Greenleaf  and  Cranch  homestead, 
very  devotedly.  This  cousinly  friendship  was  kept 
up  all  through  their  lives,  and  was  a  source  of  great 
pleasure  to  both. 

In  the  summer  of  1835,  Mr.  Cranch  graduated, 
from  the  Divinity  School,  and  entered  at  once  upon 
the  duties  of  preaching,  at  the  age  of  twenty-two. 
Among  the  first  churches  in  which  he  preached  was 
Reverend  Doctor  Farley's,  in  Providence,  Rhode 
Island,  a  large  church  "which  frightened  me  not  a 
little,"  he  said. 

In  the  winter  of  1836  —  an  unusually  cold  one  — 
Mr.  Cranch  was  persuaded  to  go  down  to  Andover, 
Maine.  This  was  a  hard  place,  but  missionary  work 
was  much  needed.  He  spent  some  weeks  there, 
preaching  in  a  small  schoolhouse  or  in  a  half -fin 
ished  meeting-house.  A  tremendous  snowstorm 
set  in,  keeping  people  in  their  houses.  A  letter  to 
his  friend  John  S.  Dwight  describes  his  feelings:  — 

ANDOVER,  MAINE,  February  9,  1836. 

If  you  have  a  spark  of  sympathy  and  kindness  in  you, 
you  will  commiserate  me.  Will  you  have  the  kindness 
to  put  up  the  following  note  for  me  at  some  Christian 
church  in  the  civilized  country  I  have  left:  "A man  abid 
ing  in  the  wilderness  desires  the  prayers  of  his  friends  for 
his  liberation  and  return."  Here  am  I,  a  tropical  animal,  ! 


22      CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 

as  it  were,  thrown  by  some  convulsion  of  the  earth  into 
the  middle  of  an  iceberg.  Some  ages  hence  I  shall,  perad- 
venture,  be  discovered  and  be  looked  upon  by  the  learned 
doctors  as  a  rare  specimen  of  a  departed  race  of  animals. 
What!  is  there  nothing  but  snowstorms  and  snowbanks 
extant?  Has  the  earth  taken  wings  and  left  behind  noth 
ing  but  rugged  mountains,  endless  pine  forests  and 
stumps!  It  would  doubtless  seem  so  to  you  were  you  in 
my  situation,  for  I  need  take  but  a  very  few  steps  out 
of  doors,  to  be  a  companion  unto  bears,  wolves,  and 
moose.  In  short  I  am  mewed  up  in  this  ultima  thule 
of  civilization  against  my  will,  by  reason  of  these  vile 
and  rough  roads.  It  seems  as  if  the  elements  had  com 
bined  to  keep  me  here.  All  passing  almost  is  impracti 
cable.  I  can't  even  stir  out  of  doors.  There  is  a  regular 
siege  and  blockade  carried  on  by  wind  and  snow  against 
the  town.  I  am  like  Hildebrand  shut  in  by  Kuhlborn  and 
the  water  spirits,  and  the  white  old  man  nods  and  whis 
tles  in  every  snowbank;  but  alas,  there  are  no  Undines  in 
this  land  of  desolation  to  help  me  to  beguile  the  lin 
gering  hours.  But  if  I  am  a  prisoner  bodily,  I  am  deter 
mined  (and  this  is  my  resolution)  that  my  thoughts  and 
feelings  shall  have  liberty,  nay,  even  that  they  shall 
take  the  form  of  an  epistle.  O,  the  cacoethes  scribendi, 
is  a  pleasant  passion!  ...  I  have  scarcely  ever  felt  the 
mournful  gusts  of  homesickness  (why  have  we  no  better 
word?)  sweep  over  my  soul,  as  they  have  during  my 
stay  here.  Were  you  ever  six  hundred  and  sixty  miles 
from  home?  I  think  you  have  been.  Then  you  may 
know  how  distance  increases  this  aching  and  longing  of 
the  heart.  Even  from  Boston  and  Cambridge  —  my 
adopted  home  —  I  am  distant  one  hundred  and  eighty 
miles.  Well,  may  you  never  light  upon  this  wilderness 
in  the  depth  of  winter,  for  a  very  wilderness  it  is  in  all 


STUDENT  AND  PREACHER  23 

respects.    I  dream  day  and  night  of  absent  friends  and 
of  home. 

But  there  are  redeeming  circumstances  about  this  same 
polar  region.  As  to  soil  and  climate,  I  say  with  Justice 
Shallow,  "Barren!  barren!  marry  good  air!"  As  to  prod 
ucts  I  can  answer,  for  one,  that  they  have  most  bounti 
ful  crops  of  snow,  together  with  forests  and  stumps  in 
any  quantity.  Inhabitants  and  parishioners  few  and  far 
between,  to  my  sorrow.  Ignorant,  rough  and  farmer- 
like,  but  withal  good,  ordinary,  well-disposed  folks  as 
one  could  desire,  and  many  good  Christians  among  them; 
but  as  ignorant  of  Unitarianism  and  rational  Chris 
tianity  as  "  'Ebrew  Jews."  The  good  things  that  I  have 
to  mention  are :  the  good,  in  the  first  place  which  I  think 
my  visit  here  does  to  myself;  next  the  good  —  I  hope  I 
may  have  done  a  little  —  which  the  people  may  receive 
from  my  services;  besides  the  pleasure  which  I  have  re 
ceived  in  preaching  and  in  talking  with  the  good  folks. 
I  intended  to  have  visited  much  among  these  Andover- 
ites,  but  the  bad  driving  has  prevented.  We  have  had  a 
miserable  place  to  preach  in —  a  little  box  of  a  meeting 
house  not  half  finished,  and  afterwards  a  miserable  little 
schoolhouse,  hardly  big  enough  to  turn  around  in,  with 
out  any  pulpit  or  desk.  I  had  as  lief  almost  talk  in  a  tin 
cup.  Last  Sunday  was  an  extra  Sabbath  beyond  my 
engagement,  and  I  preached  half  a  day.  Besides  regular 
preaching  for  four  Sundays,  I  have  preached  and  pre 
pared  two-evening-a-week  lectures,  one  of  them  extem 
pore,  and  a  temperance  address.  I  have  small  audiences, 
but  very  unusually  attentive,  which  is  pleasant.  I  found 
them  all  entirely  ignorant  of  Unitarianism,  but  more  or 
less  disgusted  with  the  orthodox  preaching  which  they 
have  had  here,  and  willing  and  glad  to  hear  something 
more  liberal  and  rational  from  the  pulpit.  By  far  the 


24     CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 

larger  part  of  the  town  are  anti-orthodox  in  their  feeling. 
As  to  their  theologic  notions  they  are  very  crude  and 
unsettled.  I  have  preached  "plain  practical"  sermons, 
as  Br'er  Frost  would  say,  and  such  they  like.  Besides, 
controversial  discourses  can  do  little  good  and  much 
harm.  ...  I  have  not  attacked  Calvinistic  doctrines  by 
name,  but  indirectly;  and  this  I  could  not  avoid,  if  I 
wished  to  preach  what  I  believe  to  be  truth.  It  was 
curious  to  observe  how  my  sermons  were  received.  Many 
good  orthodox  people  thought  I  preached  sound  doctrine, 
and  even  a  good  old  ultra-Universalist  lady  was  pleased, 
though  I  urged  the  doctrine  of  Retribution  frequently. . . . 

To  John  S.  Dwight 

RICHMOND,  VA.,  June  15,  1836. 

I  have  just  returned  from  the  post-office  with  the  glori 
ous  and  unexpected  haul  of  three  letters,  by  no  means 
a  common  occurrence  in  these  later  times,  one  from 
William  G.  Eliot,  Jr.,  one  from  my  brother  Edward,  and 
last,  not  least,  the  delightfully  refreshing  one  from  your 
self.  Glorious!  Such  a  treat  as  this  I  have  not  had  for  a 
long,  long  time!  Permit  me  to  thank  you  for  yours  as 
it  deserves.  I  own  I  should  have  written  you  before, 
but  "matters  and  things"  you  know.  But  your  kind 
epistle  has  done  me  infinite  good.  I  can  feel  with  you, 
as  you  describe  your  feelings  in  the  pulpit.  It  is  a  throne, 
and  you  can  hardly  conceive  the  uplifting  sensations 
that  sometimes  rush  through  one,  when  one  mounts  it 
as  a  spiritual  leader,  and  stretches  forth  over  his  audi 
ence  his  invisible  sceptre  of  thought  and  feeling.  I 
realize  every  time  I  preach,  more  and  more,  the  impor 
tance  and  the  glory  of  the  preacher's  office.  O  for  one 
of  those  voices  to  sing  for  me  the  hymns  I  give  out!  I 
miss  the  old  music  of  New  England  exceedingly. 


STUDENT  AND  PREACHER  25 

But  now  methinks  you  are  anxiously  looking  down 
this  scrawl,  to  learn  when,  why,  and  how,  I  got  me  into 
this  out-of-the-way  place.  For  by  your  direction  I  per 
ceive  you  are  not  acquainted  with  my  localities.  I  will 
answer  you  briefly.  I  have  been  here  nearly  four  weeks; 
came  not  exactly  as  a  candidate,  though  they  seem  dis 
posed  to  hold  me.  They  do  want  a  settled  minister  here 
most  confoundedly  —  to  use  a  lay-phrase. 

They  want  doctrinal  and  controversial  preaching  here, 
as  they  do  in  almost  all  "new  places."  The  Virginians 
will  not  read  and  inquire  for  themselves.  A  tract  or 
treatise  on  theology  or  religion  is  an  abomination  unto 
them.  They  depend  very  much  on  what  they  hear  from 
the  pulpit,  but  more  persons  depend  entirely  upon  hear 
say.  I  gave  them  a  pretty  direct  talk  about  this  matter, 
from  the  text,  "Let  every  man  be  fully  persuaded  in 
his  own  mind,"  in  the  conclusion  of  which  I  told  them 
they  must  not  depend  upon  what  they  hear  of  our  views, 
from  the  mouths  of  ignorant,  prejudiced  opponents,  or 
what  they  hear  from  the  pulpit,  for  the  pulpit,  though 
the  altar  of  truth,  is  not  the  arena  of  controversy,  but 
that  they  must  read,  think,  and  inquire.  I  felt  gloriously 
while  delivering  this  sermon.  It  was  glorious  to  arrest 
the  attention  of  a  passer-by,  or  a  door  lingerer  (such 
hearers  of  the  word  are  by  far  too  common  here),  to  catch 
his  eye  and  a  new  inspiration  the  same  moment,  to  blaze 
away  right  at  him  and  to  hold  him  like  the  Ancient 
Mariner  to  his  seat,  and  address  to  him  an  appeal,  which 
it  almost  seemed  as  if  Providence  had  brought  him 
expressly  to  hear.  I  have  preached  better  here  than 
anywhere  else.  I  think  I  have  improved;  but  there  is 
something  of  the  feeling  of  desertion  and  of  standing 
alone  which  one  experiences  in  the  Unitarian  pulpit  here, 
which  makes  me  feel  how  very  important  is  my  station, 


26      CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 

and  what  a  call  there  is  for  larger  earnestness,  directness, 
voice,  gesture,  and  unction.  I  have  had  some  most  glori 
ous  moments  in  the  pulpit,  moments  which  have  carried 
with  them  an  excitement  I  do  not  remember  ever  to  have 
experienced  elsewhere,  or  ever  so  deeply.  The  audiences 
have  been  unusually  small,  but  this  we  must  expect. 
The  habits  of  the  people  here  of  all  denominations  are, 
in  this  respect  of  regularity  at  church,  diametrically 
opposite  to  our  good  old  New  England  customs.  Can't 
some  of  your  class  come  out  here  as  a  candidate?  If  I 
was  not  possessed  with  the  Western  mania  in  some  de 
gree,  I  should  prefer  settling  here  to  almost  any  other 
place. 

The  city  itself  of  Richmond  is,  for  situation,  scenery, 
walks,  etc.,  enchanting.  There  is  nothing  in  all  New 
England  like  it.  The  society  is  good.  All  that  is  dis 
agreeable  is  the  wall  of  prejudice  and  ignorance  we  must 
break  through.  I  have  not  been  much  into  the  society 
here.  I  have  become  quite  domesticated  in  one  of  the 
finest  families  I  ever  saw.  They  are  Jewish  ladies  —  not 
young  or  handsome,  but  everything  else  —  refined,  edu 
cated,  Christian;  in  point  of  fact,  poetical,  and  above  all 
musical.  I  go  there  every  day,  sing,  play  the  flute,  chat, 
send  poetry,  etc.,  etc.  I  don't  know  what  I  should  have 
done  with  myself  in  my  loneliness  here,  had  it  not  been 
for  these  kind,  excellent  ladies.  They  know  all  the  Uni 
tarian  ministers  almost  —  are  intimate  with  Dr.  Chan- 
ning,  William  Channing,  Mr.  S.  G.  May,  and  others. 
Their  names  are  Hay  and  Myers.  There  are  a  great 
many  Jews  here  and  they  have  a  synagogue.  I  cannot 
write  you  more  of  them  now  —  I  have  a  great  many  things 
to  say,  but  my  paper  is  out. 

I  wanted  to  tell  you  about  a  musical  German  minister  I 
met  with  in  Washington.  A  real  German  and  enthusiast 


STUDENT  AND  PREACHER  27 

in  everything.  A  student,  a  man  of  learning,  but  his  voice 
and  guitar  were  glorious.  And  he  did  sing  with  so  much 
feeling,  it  was  a  luxury  to  listen.  I  heard  from  him  the 
genuine  air  of  the  old  ballad  of  the  Erl  King.  It  was  un 
utterable.  I  was  exceedingly  sorry  to  leave  him,  with 
Washington,  —  my  dear  home. 

O  that  you  were  here,  my  dear  friend,  to  enjoy  my 
delightful  walks  with  me!  There  are  beautiful  rambles 
in  every  direction,  in  and  out  of  the  city.  Flowers  are 
quite  abundant.  I  have  now  on  my  mantelpiece  a  mag 
nificent  magnolia  grandiflora.  It  is  larger  than  my  fist 
—  when  blown  full,  larger  than  both  fists,  a  beautiful 
pure  white,  imperial-looking,  forest  flower.  It  grows 
here  only  in  gardens.  It  would  inspire  you  to  write  a 
sonnet  upon  it,  to  see  it.  It  has  almost  inspired  me. 
There  is  something  so  grand,  queenlike,  and  chiselled  in 
its  large,  oval,  close-folded  petals,  and  its  dark,  shining 
leaves,  rising  above  it  like  guardian  maidens  of  honor 
around  their  queen.  Something  in  the  powerful  and  de 
lightful  fragrance  that  carries  the  imagination  so  into 
the  dark  and  deep  forests  of  Florida,  and  the  banks  of  the 
Mississippi,  that  I  wish  I  could  show  my  present  —  for 
it  is  a  present,  and  from  a  lady  too  —  to  all  my  friends. 

Preaching  in  Bangor,  Portland,  Boston,  Rich 
mond,  and  back  to  Washington  in  the  summer, 
Mr.  Cranch  made  many  friends;  some  that  lasted 
all  his  life.  One  of  these  was  Miss  Mary  Preston,  of 
Bangor,  Maine,  afterwards  Mrs.  George  L.  Stearns, 
of  Medford,  Massachusetts.  Her  husband,  Major 
Stearns,  was  the  lifelong  friend  of  the  slave.  He 
frequently  hid  runaway  slaves  in  his  own  house,  and 
provided  them  with  clothes,  money,  railroad  fare, 
and  drove  them  to  the  station,  which  would  take 


28      CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 

them  to  freedom,  in  his  own  carriage.  It  was  he  who 
advised  the  use  of  colored  soldiers  in  the  war,  offi 
cered  by  young  men  of  the  best  New  England  fami 
lies.  Before  John  Brown's  execution,  Major  Stearns 
went  to  visit  him  in  prison.  The  only  bust  in  the 
country  of  John  Brown  is  the  one  by  Brackett  in 
the  Stearns'  home. 

Giving  his  fortune,  his  life,  to  the  great  cause  of 
freedom,  Major  Stearns  was  one  of  those  quiet 
heroes,  whose  death  was  none  the  less  a  sacrifice, 
although  not  offered  in  the  ranks  of  the  soldier  or 
on  the  field  of  battle. 

Mrs.  Stearns  lived  among  her  relics,  and  in  the 
past.  She  was  the  intimate  friend  of  Whittier,  of 
Samuel  Longfellow,  of  James  P.  Bradford,  and  of 
Dr.  Hedge.  The  portraits  of  these  and  of  many 
others  adorned  her  parlors,  and  before  each  was  a 
little  bunch  of  flowers  and  a  wreath  of  pressed  fern, 
forming  a  fragrant  and  tender  offering  at  each 
shrine.  The  portrait  of  Major  Stearns  is  over  all,  — 
as  he  was  uppermost  in  the  mind  of  her  who  lived 
ever  in  the  light  of  his  spirit  and  memory.  Although 
in  her  seventies,  when  I  knew  Mrs.  Stearns,  she 
never  seemed  old;  she  was  full  of  mental  vigor  and 
enthusiasm.  There  was  an  atmosphere  of  hospital 
ity  and  serenity  about  her,  rare  nowadays  in  this 
over-strained,  nerve-racking  world.  A  combination 
of  beautiful  surroundings  —  exquisite  flowers,  rare 
and  luscious  fruits,  which  a  dear  old  Scotch  gar 
dener,  by  his  faithfulness  and  devotion  of  many 
years,  helped  to  create  —  made  a  unique  setting  for 
this  beautiful  and  strong  personality.  No  wonder 
that  Mr.  Cranch  enjoyed  a  long  talk,  after  a  walk  to 
Medford  and  a  Sunday  evening  tea,  at  his  friend's 


STUDENT  AND  PREACHER  29 

hospitable  board!  Her  sympathy  was  always  at 
his  need,  and  during  their  long  lives  the  friendship 
never  wavered  and  was  a  beautiful  tribute  to  the 
character  of  each. 

The  Reverend  Frederick  H.  Hedge  was  pastor  of 
the  Unitarian  Church  in  Bangor,  Maine,  about  1836- 
37,  and  had  met  Mr.  Cranch  as  a  young  minister  and 
Transcendentalist.  Mrs.  Stearns  was  a  member  of 
Dr.  Hedge's  church.  One  day  she  read  in  the  "  Dial " 
the  lines  called  "  Enosis,"  and  signed  "  C.  P.  C." 

Although  better  known  than  any  of  my  father's 
poems,  I  quote  the  whole  poem  here,  because  not 
included  in  his  later  volume  of  poems:  — 

Thought  is  deeper  than  all  speech, 

Feeling  deeper  than  all  thought; 
Souls  to  souls  can  never  teach 

What  unto  themselves  was  taught. 

We  are  spirits  clad  in  veils; 

Man  by  man  was  never  seen; 
All  our  deep  communing  fails 

To  remove  the  shadowy  screen. 

Heart  to  heart  was  never  known; 

Mind  with  mind  did  never  meet; 
We  are  columns  left  alone 

Of  a  temple  once  complete. 

Like  the  stars  that  gem  the  sky, 

Far  apart  though  seeming  near, 
In  our  light  we  scattered  lie; 

All  is  thus  but  starlight  here. 

What  is  social  company 

But  a  babbling  summer  stream? 
What  our  wise  philosophy 

But  the  glancing  of  a  dream? 

Only  when  the  sun  of  love 
Melts  the  scattered  stars  of  thought, 


30      CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 

Only  when  we  live  above 

What  the  dim-eyed  world  hath  taught, 

Only  when  our  souls  are  fed 

By  the  fount  which  gave  them  birth, 

And  by  inspiration  led, 

Which  they  never  drew  from  earth, 

\Ve,  like  parted  drops  of  rain, 

Swelling  till  they  melt  and  run, 
Shall  be  all  absorbed  again, 

Melting,  flowing  into  one. 

Miss  Preston  thought  the  lines  very  beautiful 
and  asked  Dr.  Hedge  who  "C.  P.  C."  was.  Dr. 
Hedge  replied  that  he  was  a  young  minister,  an 
admirer  of  Emerson,  who  contributed  to  the  "Dial," 
and  other  papers,  and  that  he  was  coming  soon  to 
exchange  pulpits  with  him,  and  she  would  have  a 
chance  to  make  his  acquaintance.  The  visiting 
minister  was  entertained  at  Mr.  Preston's,  and  it 
was  thus  in  her  father's  house  that  Miss  Mary 
Preston  first  met  Mr.  Cranch. 

I  asked  what  kind  of  sermons  Mr.  Cranch 
preached.  Mrs.  Stearns  said,  "spiritual  sermons," 


that  were  much  liked  by  the  liberal  members  of  the 


congregation. 


CHAPTER  III 

WESTERN   EXPERIENCES 

IN  September,  1836,  Mr.  Cranch  returned  to  Wash 
ington  for  a  visit  to  the  old  home.  He  was  urged  to 
come  to  the  West  by  his  cousin,  William  Greenleaf 
Eliot,  who  was  preaching  in  St.  Louis,  Missouri.  The 
invitation  was  accepted  and  Mr.  Cranch  preached 
several  sermons  in  St.  Louis,  staying  with  kind 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Christopher  Rhodes,  while  Mr.  Eliot 
preached  in  New  Orleans  and  Mobile.  In  St.  Louis 
Mr.  Cranch  wrote  poems  and  did  other  literary  work 
for  the  papers.  His  flute  was  his  constant  compan 
ion,  and  Mrs.  Rhodes  being  musical,  they  sang  and 
played  together. 

In  those  days  travelling  was  slow  and  tedious. 
It  took  nearly  two  weeks,  by  steamboat  on  the  Ohio 
and  Mississippi  Rivers,  with  stage  across  the  moun 
tains,  to  go  from  Washington  to  St.  Louis. 

Mr.  Eliot  afterwards  settled  in  St.  Louis,  where 
he  not  only  built  up  a  strong  society,  but  founded 
the  Washington  University  and  the  Training  School 
for  Nurses,  among  other  good  works.  His  zeal  and 
public  spirit  were  unbounded,  and  he  became  one  of 
the  leading  men  of  the  West  in  educational  and  phil 
anthropic  work.  His  life  was  a  consecration  to  the 
highest  ideals  of  duty,  and  it  did  not  fail  of  great 
results.  In  June,  1837,  he  married  my  father's  sis 
ter,  Abigail  Adams  Cranch,  who,  by  her  devotion 
and  unselfishness,  was  of  great  service  to  him  in 
building  up  his  church. 


32      CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 

Mr.  Cranch  went  to  Cincinnati  tentatively  as 
regards  the  ministry  at  large,  to  be  appointed  to 
work  among  the  poor;  but  he  thought  himself  un 
fitted  for  the  position.  He  was  trying  all  the  time 
to  prepare  himself  for  his  duties.  His  early  diaries 
are  quite  pathetic  from  his  struggles.  It  was  en 
deavoring  to  fit  a  square  peg  into  a  round  hole;  his 
poetic  effusions,  his  love  of  painting  and  of  music 
all  calling  him  away  from  sermonizing,  which  he 
was  strongly  urged  to  follow  and  to  crush  the  rest. 
When  James  Handasyde  Perkins  appeared  in  Cin 
cinnati,  my  father  knelt  to  him,  metaphorically, 
in  homage  and  in  gratitude.  Mr.  Perkins  had  the 
consecration  necessary  for  a  minister's  life. 

In  March,  1837,  Mr.  Cranch  left  St.  Louis  and 
went  to  preach  in  Peoria,  Illinois.  There  he  stayed 
with  Judge  Bigelow  and  made  some  very  warm 
friends. 

To  Miss  Catherine  Myers 

PEORIA,  March  29,  1837. 

How  sweet  to  be  remembered  so,  and  to  be  written  to 
by  such  kind  friends,  when  so  far  away  as  "the  Childe" 
now  is  from  the  land  of  his  home!  ...  If  my  poor  letters 
to  you  are  well-springs  in  a  desert,  what  must  yours  be  to 
me.  For  truly,  I  am  in  a  desert  in  more  respects  than  one. 
But  you  must  not  imagine  that  I  am  complaining  of  the 
West,  or  of  this  place  where  I  at  present  am.  You  see 
that  I  am  at  last  actually  in  Peoria;  yes,  actually  in 
that  much-talked-of  place,  when  I  was  with  you  in  Rich 
mond.  Harriet's  map  has  at  length  guided  me  safely 
hither,  to  this  prairie  land.  But  before  proceeding  far 
ther,  I  suppose  I  must  give  you  some  idea  of  the  place 
itself.  Latralie,  let  me  say,  was  here  before  the  town  as  it 


WESTERN  EXPERIENCES  33 

now  is  had  started  from  the  old  chrysalis  it  then  was,  the 
ruins  of  an  old  French  settlement.  Now,  though  small,  the 
growth  of  not  three  years,  it  is  a  thriving  and  growing 
place  settled  by  many  New  Englanders,  good,  intelligent 
Unitarian  families.  Of  course  the  houses  are  small  and 
scattered  at  present,  but  what  more  could  be  expected  in 
so  young  a  place?  The  location  of  the  town  is  indeed 
beautiful  as  has  been  represented.  It  is  a  prairie  country. 
The  land  rises  gradually  from  the  Illinois  River,  where 
there  is  an  excellent  landing  for  steamboats,  which  are 
constantly  coming  and  going,  —  then  continues  perfectly 
level  and  broad  for  a  good  way  till  it  rises  back  of  the  vil 
lage  into  a  long  bluff,  on  which  there  are  trees  and  beau 
tiful  locations  for  country-seats.  The  bluff  extends  back 
into  a  prairie,  which  in  summer  is  covered  with  the  most 
beautiful  flowers  of  all  kinds.  Below  the  bluff,  where  the 
town  is,  there  are  no  trees,  and  the  ground  is  as  level 
almost  as  a  floor  for  miles  up  and  down  the  river.  In 
winter,  and  at  present,  it  is  rather  a  bleak  prospect,  and 
so  unsheltered  are  we  that  the  winds  of  the  four  heavens 
sweep  to  and  fro  at  all  times.  But  in  summer  every  one 
describes  the  place  to  be  quite  another  thing.  Nature 
seems  to  have  intended  that  a  town  should  be  built  di 
rectly  here.  I  miss  hills  and  trees  very  much,  but  other 
wise  am  much  pleased  with  Peoria.  It  will  be  a  thriving 
large  town  before  a  great  while,  I  feel  confident.  The 
Society  also  will  go  on  improving,  as  it  has  done  the  last 
year.  .  .  .  We  have  preaching  in  the  court-room.  A  class 
mate  of  mine,  Thurston,  is  stationed  at  present  over  two 
other  small  towns  from  ten  to  fifteen  miles  off,  at  Tre- 
mont  and  Perkin.  ... 

But  hark  —  it  rains,  and  seems  as  if  it  set  in  for  a 
storm.  It  will  quench  the  prairie  fires  which  have  been 
lighting  up  to-night.  These  fires  are  seen  almost  every 


34      CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 

night  in  various  directions.  I  have  not  yet  seen  a  real 
prairie,  much  less  one  on  fire,  —  I  mean  except  at  a  dis 
tance.  How  the  rain  and  the  darkness  and  the  silence  and 
the  solitude  turn  one's  thoughts  from  outward  things  to 
the  objects  of  the  heart's  affections.  I  believe  it  was  in 
tended  that  the  eye  within  should  see  clearest  when  it  is 
most  dark  to  the  eye  without  —  that  the  soul's  ear  should 
listen  and  hear  best  when  the  storm  speaks  to  the  out 
ward  ear.  .  .  . 

To  the  Reverend  James  Freeman  Clarke 

WASHINGTON  CITY,  July  18,  1837. 

As  Eliot  and  I  were  wending  our  way  homeward,  the 
idea  came  into  my  head,  that  at  our  gathering  to  dedicate 
the  St.  Louis  church  in  the  fall,  we  might  also  get  up  an 
ordination  as  well  as  not.  Do  not  all  things  agree  there 
unto?  Here  am  I  only  a  half -made  minister,  going  out  to 
the  West,  unconsecrated  by  my  older  brethren  by  the 
laying  on  of  hands  to  the  labors  I  am  to  engage  in.  Then, 
too,  we  hope  to  have  lots  of  divines  together  at  the  occa 
sion  aforesaid,  and  an  ordination  at  such  a  time  and  on 
such  an  occasion  would  be  a  new  and  impressive  thing. 
Why  should  not  we  of  the  West  have  our  "sprees"  eccle 
siastic  as  well  as  our  Eastern  brethren?  I  think  it  is  time 
we  should  begin.  I  mentioned  the  idea  to  Eliot,  who  likes 
it  very  much.  And  I  hope  it  may  be  carried  into  effect, 
should  we  have  clerical  brethren  enough  to  form  a  coun 
cil.  I  therefore  write  to  you,  to  ask  if  you  could  at  that 
time  preach  the  ordination  sermon.  ...  If  you  think  well 
of  this  plan,  and  can  conveniently  preach  me  into  the 
goodly  fellowship  of  the  ordained  prophets,  you  shall 
receive  all  a  brother's  thanks  for  your  services. 

I  intended  to  have  sent  you  something  for  the  "Mes 
senger"  rather  more  solid  than  those  scraps  I  gave  you, 


WESTERN  EXPERIENCES  35 

but  my  time  has  been  so  taken  up  here  that  I  have  had 
too  little  to  dispose  of  in  this  way.  Poetry,  such  as  it  is, 
I  can  almost  always  spare.  I  have  been  thinking  of  send 
ing  you  an  article  on  Wordsworth,  from  a  lecture  I  wrote 
on  the  same,  and  will,  if  you  like,  and  time  admits.  Hav 
ing  preached  all  my  old  sermons  in  Washington,  I  am  put 
to  it  to  write  new  ones,  though  Eliot  preaches  about  half 
the  time.  This  writing  and  the  pleasurin'  I  have  had  to 
do  of  late  have  taken  up  many  hours  which  I  should 
much  like  to  have  given  to  other  things.  .  .  . 

To  Miss  Julia  Myers 

WASHINGTON,  D.C.,  August  10,  1837. 

...  I  have  so  many  things  to  say,  as  I  told  you  when  I 
was  with  you,  that  I  never  know  where  to  begin  or  end. 
Indeed,  during  the  whole  of  the  time  I  spent  in  Richmond 
I  felt  the  same  oppressive,  unsettled  feeling,  and  could 
not  do  or  say  what  I  wanted  to.  Many,  many  things  were 
at  my  heart,  but  I  could  not  trust  to  common  spoken 
language  to  utter  them,  and  indeed  I  know  not  if  it  is 
much  easier  to  do  it  on  paper.  I  have  never  been  accus 
tomed  to  give  full  vent  in  words  to  my  feelings  and 
thoughts:  I  cannot  do  it;  I  have  at  times,  under  the  influ 
ence  of  a  temporary  excitement  of  the  organ  of  language, 
joined  with  other  causes,  been  thrown,  as  it  were,  for  a 
brief  period,  out  of  myself,  my  diffidence  driven  out  by 
self-possession,  and  my  inertness  by  a  short-lived  vigour, 
and  words  came  with  an  ease  and  aptitude  which  sur 
prised  myself.  But  this  is  only  at  times.  In  general  I  am 
reserved,  secretive,  proud,  indolent,  but  above  all  diffident. 
This  besetting  diffidence  lies  at  the  root  of  all  my  reserve, 
and  keeps  me  again  and  again  silent  and  seemingly  cold, 
when  no  one  could  tell  how  deep  and  strong  the  stream 
which  ran  hidden  within.  .  .  .  The  reason  why  this  diffi- 


36      CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE   CRANCH 

dence  is  not  more  seen  is  that  I  am  too  proud  and  sensi 
tive  to  opinion  to  let  my  diffidence  be  seen.  This,  com 
bined  with  my  indifference  to  most  objects  around  me, 
make  me  often  seem  what  I  am  not.  ... 

I  shall  write  my  cousin  again  soon,  and  tell  her  all  about 
my  Richmond  visit.  And  is  this  long-thought-of  visit 
indeed  over,  and  am  I  in  Washington  again?  Am  I  no 
longer  within  walk  of  your  hospitable  bower,  and  the 
magic  ring  that  held  me  there  in  bonds  of  enchantment? 
Enchantment,  Verbena,  Richmond,  —  these  three  words 
shall  ever  be  associated.  And  am  I,  indeed,  —  how  long  I 
know  not,  —  beyond  the  sound  of  your  sweet  voice,  and 
the  beautiful  Beethovenish  "four  flats,"  and  its  cousin, 
the  gentle  guitar  that  inhabiteth  that  box  in  the  corner? 
No,  I  am  not  beyond  them.  I  hear  them  still.  My  mem 
ories  of  all  these  joys,  and  many,  many  more  are  vivid, 
indeed,  and  shall  not  soon  fade.  My  heart  is  garlanded 
around  with  the  flowers  of  Memory.  I  have  been  dipping 
these  flowers  in  the  fountain  of  present  enjoyment,  and 
"the  picture  of  the  mind  revives  again"  —  the  flowers 
lift  up  their  bright,  many-tinted  leaves  and  petals,  and  I 
shall  long  live  in  the  odour  of  the  past.  .  .  . 

His  next  stay  of  any  considerable  extent  was  in 
Louisville,  Kentucky,  where  he  took  James  Free 
man  Clarke's  place,  preaching  and  editing  the 
"Western  Messenger,"  a  monthly  paper  "con 
ducted  in  the  interests  of  the  liberal  faith  and  of 
literature." 

A  letter  to  his  sister  Margaret,  afterwards  Mrs. 
Erastus  Brooks,  gives  an  account  of  the  society  in 
Louisville,  and  of  what  he  did  for  the  "Messenger." 
It  shows  how  his  genial  nature  made  him  a  favorite, 
and  his  various  talents  were  brought  into  use.  Of 


WESTERN  EXPERIENCES  37 

the  spiritual  qualities  of  his  sermons  we  must  judge 
later.  The  following  letter  is  dated  October  14,  1837. 

Well,  here  I  stick  in  Louisville  still,  where  I  am 
Preacher,  Pastor,  Editor  pro  tern.;  until  that  reverend 
dignitary,  whose  place  I  am  trying  to  fill,  shall  return 
from  his  Eastern  wanderings  1  His  congregation  are  get 
ting  impatient  to  have  him  back  again,  and  I  should  be 
impatient  to  get  away,  were  it  not  that  I  find  it  so  pleas 
ant,  and  that  the  poor  deserted  "Messenger"  seems  to 
beg  so  hard  for  an  editor.  I  have  contributed  several 
articles,  but  still  there  is  a  large  vacancy,  —  this  is  the 
November  number.  I  would  stuff  it  with  more  poetry, 
but  I  am  ashamed  that  so  many  pieces  should  go  forth 
with  "  C.  P.  C."  dangling  at  the  end.  The  numbers  should 
be  made  up  by  the  fifteenth,  and  as  much  as  one  half, 
I  think,  is  yet  unfinished.  William  Eliot  has  sent  no 
thing  yet  but  an  article  on  Unitarianism.  I  am  preparing 
an  extract  from  one  of  Edward's  letters  to  give  in,  and 
am  rummaging  my  "Omnibus  Book"  for  scraps  and  ends 
to  publish  anonymously.  .  .  . 

I  have  found  several  good  pleasant  folk  here,  and  a 
few  musical  ones.  Last  night  I  was  at  a  meeting  of  the 
Ladies'  Sewing  Society,  at  Mrs.  C.'s."  On  entering  there, 
I  encountered  a  whole  table  full  of  bright  faces,  ranged 
around  a  large  astral  lamp  and  busily  engaged  in  chatting 
over  their  work.  Some  gentlemen  were  there,  and  some 
more  came  shortly  after.  At  half  -past  nine  the  ladies  put 
up  their  sewing  and  dispersed  about  the  room.  Soon  I 
was  called  upon  to  sing  with  Mrs.  E.  C.  So  we  sang  — 
"Home,  Fare  Thee  Well,"  "I  Know  a  Bank,"  and  "As 
It  Fell  Upon  a  Day";  also,  "I've  Wandered  in  Dreams," 
though  I  never  tried  it  before. 

I  went  the  other  night  to  see  Mr.  Keats,  an  English 


38     CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 

gentleman  residing  here,  and  brother  to  Keats,  the  poet. 
He  seemed  to  be  a  very  intelligent  and  gentlemanly  man, 
and  has  some  daughters,  only  one  of  whom  I  saw,  a 
young  lady  about  fourteen  apparently,  with  face  and 
features  strongly  resembling  Keats,  the  poet,  or  that 
little  portrait  of  him  which  you  see  in  the  volume  con 
taining  his  poems  in  conjunction  with  Coleridge  and 
Shelley.  I  could  scarcely  keep  my  eyes  from  her  coun 
tenance,  so  striking  was  the  likeness.  They  say  she 
plays  beautifully  on  the  piano.  .  .  . 

I  have  been  preparing,  this  forenoon,  a  review  of  Mr. 
Emerson's  Phi  Beta  Kappa  Oration,  which  is  now  in  the 
printer's  hands  for  the  "Messenger."  This  child,  being 
left  by  its  father,  the  Reverend  James  Freeman  Clarke, 
crieth  continually  for  food.  Not  more  than  half  the  requi 
site  matter  is  furnished,  —  and  most  of  that  is  spun  from 
the  brains  of  your  humble  servant,  C.  P.  C.  Clarke  just 
lets  his  offspring  go  to  the  dickens.  If  it  had  not  been 
that  C.  P.  C.  happened  to  adhere  to  the  south  bank  of 
the  Ohio  on  his  way  downstream,  and  take  roost  awhile 
in  these  diggings,  where  had  been  the  flowers  and  fruits 
that  must  spring  therefrom  to  fill  the  "Messenger's" 
demands?  I  look  about  now  like  a  hungry  lion  seeking 
for  prey,  yea,  like  some  voracious,  responsible  spider, 
that  sitteth  solitary  in  a  corner  of  a  deserted  house, 
spreading  its  web  and  looking  on  emptiness  after  strag 
gling  flies  of  contributors,  which  come  not  —  of  which 
the  fewest  are  to  be  found.  Nevertheless,  I  give  myself 
no  uneasiness.  The  young  ravens  are  fed,  and  so  will  the 
" Messenger"  be,  in  time. 

An  old  gentleman  named  Judge  S.  called  on  me  the 
other  day,  and  wants  to  take  me  into  the  country  to  his 
house,  about  five  miles  from  Louisville,  to  stay  some 
days.  I  should  like  to  go,  but  doubt  whether  the  "cares 


WESTERN  EXPERIENCES  39 

of  editorial  life"  will  permit.  I  find  everybody  here 
hospitable.  I  can't  make  visits  fast  enough.  By  the 
time  I  get  acquainted  here,  as  it  has  always  been  else 
where,  I  am  obliged  to  go.  But  I  shall  not  have  been  long 
enough  in  Louisville,  quite,  to  become  strongly  attached 
to  the  society. 

To  Miss  Margaret  Cranch 

October  15,  1837. 

.  .  .  Found  that  Mr.  Clarke  had  returned.  Went  to 
see  him,  and  spent  most  of  the  evening  with  him,  talking 
and  looking  over  Retzsch's  illustrations  of  the  Second 
Part  of  "Faust."  By  the  way,  Clarke  brought  on  also 
the  fourth  part  of  the  long-expected  "Pickwick,"  which 
I  am  at  present  enjoying.  I  have  just  been  laughing 
over  it  all  alone,  "till  the  tears  came."  I  preached  twice 
yesterday,  as  Mr.  Clarke  was  not  very  well.  Had  a  fine 
congregation  in  the  morning.  Preached  on  the  text  — 
"The  way  of  the  transgressor  is  hard."  And  in  the  after 
noon,  on  "The  duty  of  thanksgiving."  Mr.  Clarke 
praised  my  afternoon  sermon  much.  He  is  full  of  genius 
and  magnetism. 

I  shall  set  off  in  a  day  or  two  for  St.  Louis.  ...  I  begin 
to  grow  a  little  impatient  to  be  back  among  my  little 
scattered  flock  at  Peoria.  Perhaps  I  may  be  able  to 
unite  Fremont  with  Peoria  in  one  parish.  ...  I  have 
enjoyed  my  stay  here  very  much.  My  impressions  of 
Louisville  are  very  different  from  what  they  were.  Mr. 
Clarke  has  a  noble  society  and  a  desirable  station,  both 
for  comfort  and  usefulness.  He  has  a  most  enviable  in 
dependence  of  character,  which  peculiarly  fits  him  for 
such  a  place  as  this.  It  does  me  good  to  be  with  him. 
He  possesses  in  a  marked  degree  that  which  I  am  per 
petually  conscious  that  I  am  most  deficient  in  —  that  is, 


40      CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE   CRANCH 

boldness  —  an  habitual  independence  and  disregard  for 
the  opinion  of  men.  I  think  I  am  acquiring  of  it  slowly. 
The  West  is  a  grand  school  for  me  in  this  respect.  Still, 
the  lack  of  it  palsies  me  continually.  I  cannot  forget  my 
self.  My  eyes  are  turned  so  habitually  on  myself,  that 
almost  every  action  of  my  life  is  divested  of  freedom. 
Nothing  goes  from  me  that  has  not  passed  under  the 
eyes  of  self,  and  is  not  referred  to  the  opinion  of  those 
around  me.  I  am  not  free  enough;  I  am  not  bold  enough 
for  a  minister  of  the  Word  of  Life.  Over  and  over  again 
do  I  chide  my  timidity,  my  reserve,  my  sensitiveness. 
I  want  what  might  be  called  spontaneousness.  And  I 
think  the  West  is  the  school  where  this  want  is  to 
be  supplied.  I  must  mingle  among  men  and  women 
more.  I  must  converse  freely  and  about  everything.  I 
must  interest  myself  in  their  conditions  and  wants.  I  must 
think  more  of  my  fellow  men  and  less  of  myself.  I  must 
not  feel  myself  detached  from  society,  but  as  forming  a 
stone  in  the  arch,  helping  to  support  the  building.  In 
the  West  it  is  especially  necessary  that  no  member  of 
society  should  forget  his  relations  and  isolate  himself. 
He  must  step  out  from  the  charmed  circle  of  his  own 
peculiar  tastes,  habits,  feelings,  and  sympathize  with, 
and  help,  all  around  him.  This  is  the  minister's  office 
by  preeminence.  The  minister  should  not  be  a  stand 
ing,  placid,  lake,  embosomed  by  mountains  and  gazing 
on  the  stars;  but  a  quick,  deep,  active,  strong-moving 
stream,  winding  about  among  men,  purifying  and  glad 
dening  and  fertilizing  the  world. 

The  Autobiography  here  says  of  James  Freeman 
Clarke:  — 

On  his  return  I  had  some  very  pleasant  days  with  him. 
He  was  full  of  the  new  poet,  Tennyson.    He  had  bor- 


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AN  EMERSONIAN   CARICATURE 


WESTERN  EXPERIENCES  41 

rowed  a  volume  of  his  poems,  not  yet  published  in 
America,  and  transcribed  copiously  from  them.  And 
from  his  copies,  I  made  several,  in  my  own  Common 
place  Book.  We  were  both  fascinated  with  these  poems. 
And  it  was  here,  too,  that  Clarke  and  I  started  the 
idea  of  making  comic  illustrations  of  some  of  Emerson's 
quaint  sentences,  such  as  the  "Walking  Eyeball,"  and 
the  man  "expanding  like  melons  in  the  warm  sun."  I 
was  quite  busy  while  at  Louisville.  One  number  of  the 
"Messenger"  was  made  up  almost  entirely  of  my  own 
writings. 

To  Miss  Catherine  Myers 

LOUISVILLE,  KY.,  November  24,  1838. 

Your  letter,  dear  friends,  of  the  16th  has  just  come  to 
my  hands  and  its  spirit  to  my  heart.  I  have  received  it 
and  read  it  as  I  always  do  your  delightful  epistles,  for 
they  all  come  to  me  like  well-springs  in  a  wilderness. 
Let  the  heart  through  this  poor  pen,  its  index,  thank 
you,  dear  kind  friends.  I  have  yielded  to  the  impulse  (for 
I  do  confess,  as  Julia  says,  I  am  much  the  child  of  im 
pulse,  though  not  wholly  so,  I  hope)  and  have  sat  down 
to  answer  it,  and  make  some  amends  for  my  long  silence. 
I  wrote  to  you,  Julia,  the  other  day,  but  that  shall  not 
prevent  me  from  writing  again.  Your  reproaches,  those 
gentle  reproaches,  of  my  silence,  might  indeed  have  been 
deserved,  had  the  fault  of  this  long  suspension  of  cor 
respondence  been  with  me  entirely;  but  the  fact  is,  I 
had  been  waiting  for  the  moving  of  the  waters  on  your 
part.  If  I  remember,  it  was  myself  that  sent  the  last 
letter,  some  time  last  summer,  and  a  long  one  too,  and 
ever  since  I  have  been  expecting  a  reply.  What  can  you 
say  then?  Have  not  I  the  best  side  of  the  quarrel?  At 
any  rate,  are  we  not  about  even?  The  fault  I  suppose  is 


42      CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 

to  be  chargeable  upon  some  viewless  spirit  of  taciturnity 
somewhere  between  us.  Yet  I  confess  that  I  may  be 
somewhat  in  fault.  As  I  have  often  said  when  egotizing, 
I  am  a  bad  mixture  of  the  oyster  and  the  spirit,  the  un- 
excitable  and  the  excitable,  the  sluggish  and  the  impul 
sive,  the  lymphatic  and  the  nervous,  or  of  whatever  other 
strange  contrarieties  and  extremes  you  please.  I  stop 
at  times  and  wonder  at  myself,  and  fear.  At  times  so 
alive,  so  excited,  so  full  of  one  or  another  faith  and  aim ; 
and  at  others,  so  dead,  immovable,  ennui-ish,  a  dumb 
beast,  a  clod,  an  animal,  —  a  man  of  two  natures  living 
on  earth  and  in  the  sky.  I  hope  it  may  not  always  be  so. 
It  is  a  great  hindrance  to  me  in  my  walks  and  under 
takings  in  life  to  be  such  a  Janus  with  a  double  head, 
looking  two  ways  and  going  neither.  It  is  truly  a  "mor 
tal  coil,"  this  body.  We  are  veritable  "spirits  in  prison," 
and  rarely  get  a  chance  to  stand  a-tiptoe  and  look  out 
of  "the  loopholes  of  retreat."  Christopher  out  of  his 
"cave."  Yet  we  are  encompassed  around  by  Spirit. 
The  solemn  morning  light,  the  presence  of  Duty,  the 
voices  of  friends,  the  existence  of  vice  in  the  world  — 
every  feeling  —  every  thought,  the  very  existence  of 
our  bodies  and  our  minds,  yes,  our  very  night  dreams  — 
all  are  proving  it  to  us,  day  after  day,  hour  after  hour, 
minute  after  minute,  in  every  pulse  of  our  life  blood,  in 
every  breath  of  our  mortal  lungs,  in  every  word  embody 
ing  our  inmost  Me.  And  yet,  fools  that  we  are,  we  dis 
believe,  we  doubt,  we  forget,  we  dream,  we  disobey,  we 
hug  our  fetters,  we  kiss  our  prison  walls,  and  our  creed 
is,  "Let  us  eat  and  drink,  for  to-morrow  we  must  die!" 
It  is  fearful,  the  mystery  that  is  in  us.  Still  more  fearful 
a  mystery  is  it,  that  we  do  not  always  recognize  and  live 
by  this  inner  mystery.  God  is  in  us,  but  we  so  quench 
the  spirit,  that  we  crush  and  mangle  into  ruins  His 


WESTERN  EXPERIENCES  43 

glorious  Image  in  our  breasts.  But  I  am  mounting  the 
pulpit,  when  I  should  be  seated  at  your  fireside,  talking 
face  to  face.  Let  us  talk  of  matters  other  than  those 

"  Bubbles  that  glitter  as  they  rise,  and  break, 
On  vain  Philosophy's  aye-babbling  spring." 

By  the  way,  I  need  not  say  how  I  should  rejoice  to  be 
in  propria  persona  by  your  fireside.  I  have  always  been 
at  your  house  in  summer,  though  I  have  never  found 
you  summer  friends.  I  very  often  have  delightful  dreams 
of  you  all,  and  somehow  I  almost  always  dream  of  see 
ing  you  in  winter.  I  do  not  dream  of  you  as  being  exactly 
in  Richmond,  but  in  some  dream  city  of  a  Nowhere, 
where  a  good  many  other  friends  reside:  sometimes  so 
many  that  I  have  not  time  to  visit  them  all.  Last  night 
I  dreamed  of  travelling  through  Canada,  and  waiting 
with  a  crowd  of  fellow  passengers  on  the  banks  of  the 
St.  Lawrence,  —  they  called  it  by  some  other  name  in 
the  language  of  Dream  Land,  I  forget  what  't  was,  — 
for  a  steamship  which  was  coming  with  flying  colours 
to  take  us  to  our  journey's  end.  So  I  still  dream  of  trav 
elling,  night  after  night  it  is  the  same.  I  am  a  second 
Peter  Schlimmel  with  his  seven-leagued  boots.  If  I  ever 
get  crazy,  I  suppose  it  will  be  on  this  subject,  possessed 
with  the  demon  of  perpetual  motion,  not  through  the 
air  on  wings  or  sunbeams,  but  by  the  dull,  prosaic  methods 
of  conveyance  usually  esteemed  in  fashion  upon  this 
nether  planet.  By  the  way,  did  you  ever  read  Keats's 
"Endymion"?  It  is  great!  Full  of  redundant  imagery 
and  words  of  thought,  but  rich  "as  a  perpetual  feast 
of  nectared  sweets,  where  no  crude  surfeit  reigns."  This 
will  transport  you  to  every  spot  in  air,  earth,  ocean,  but 
this  dull  earth  surface  we  plain  mortals  grovel  upon. 
I  consider  Keats  one  of  the  greatest  poetical  geniuses 


44      CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 

that  for  a  long  time  has  walked  the  earth  and  left  it,  like 
Chatterton,  — 

"  the  marvellous  Boy  that  perished  in  his  pride." 

What  might  he  not  have  become,  had  he  lived?  There 
is  a  brother  of  his  here,  an  old  resident  of  Louisville,  a 
business  man  with  a  large  family,  —  not  much  resem 
bling  the  portrait  of  the  poet,  but  a  man  of  fine  mind 
and  acquirements.  That  piece  in  the  "Messenger"  by 
Mr.  Clarke,  "To  a  Poet's  Niece,"  was  written  to  a  young 
daughter  of  his  about  thirteen  or  fourteen.  There  is 
another  daughter,  older,  who  is  a  fine  girl,  and  hath  the 
poet's  dark,  soul-like  eyes  and  diffident  manner.  ... 

To  the  Reverend  James  Freeman  Clarke 

CINCINNATI,  February  16,  1839. 

Your  letter  received  to-day  was  peculiarly  acceptable. 
As  to  the  information  you  ask  about  charitable  female 
associations,  and  your  plans  and  interests,  I  have  re 
ferred  the  matter  to  James  H.  Perkins,  our  new  brother 
in  the  ministry.  He  will  write  you  all  about  it.  He  is 
entering  upon  his  duties  as  minister  at  large,  with  the 
broadest  grounds  and  best  hopes.  He  is  just  the  man. 
He  and  Vaughan  and  Channing  and  a  few  others  — 
what  a  host  they  will  be  —  an  irresistible  phalanx,  a 
select  school  for  the  development  and  realization  of 
true  democratic  ideas.  The  Unitarians  here  are  getting 
broad  awake.  Channing  is  pouring  life  into  them  by 
week-fulls,  and  John  C.  Vaughan  is  stirring  his  stumps 
and  the  stumps  of  all  around  him  in  the  great  work. 
Everything  looks  encouraging.  Other  denominations 
seem  disposed  to  cooperate.  The  "Mechanics"  are 
ready  for  it,  and  are  taking  us  by  the  hand.  They  are 
holding  weekly  meetings  now  about  the  Penitentiary 


WESTERN  EXPERIENCES  45 

System  of  the  State.  Vaughan  will  sooner  or  later  see 
his  favorite  idea  of  a  House  of  Correction  realized.  He 
is  a  democrat  of  the  highest  order.  William  Channing 
preaches  glorious  sermons,  extempore,  opening  his  mind 
and  his  mouth  with  all  boldness.  I  don't  know  but  I  like 
him  better  as  a  preacher  than  I  do  you.  His  mind  seems 
exhaustless,  and  his  devotion  to  his  calling  seems  to  press 
almost  painfully  upon  him.  He  is  almost  universally 
admired,  and  will,  no  doubt,  return  and  settle.  He  has 
not  been  well  since  I  have  been  here,  being  dyspeptic. 
Avoid  that  malady,  my  friend!  Besides  preaching 
two  extempore  sermons  weekly  and  attending  Sun 
day-School,  he  attends  a  Bible-class-sewing-circle  of 
ladies,  every  Wednesday  afternoon,  and  has  conversa 
tion  meetings  in  the  vestry  every  Thursday  night.  These 
have  been  very  interesting.  The  ministry  at  large  has 
been  talked  over,  with  its  attendant  topics,  for  several 
evenings.  Men  and  women  are  waking.  The  green 
leaves  and  flowers  are  starting;  let  us  pray  no  untimely 
frost  may  wither  the  young  germs  of  life. 

As  for  myself,  I  have  been  a  regular  loafer  here.  Living 
in  a  dusty,  noisy  law-office,  and  sleeping  in  the  same  on 
a  most  extemporaneous  couch-bed,  without  a  pillow,  — 
very  unsettled  and  inactive.  Am  about  starting  for  Wash 
ington,  probably  on  Tuesday  next.  Think  I  shall  candi 
date  at  the  North,  and  settle  there.  Heartily  tired  am  I 
of  wandering.  I  want  a  home;  quiet  steady  work,  and 
a  wife.  I  shall  not  find  them  this  side  of  the  mountains. 

I  sent  you  two  poems,  and  a  short  article.  Did  you 
get  them?  .  .  . 

I  heard  of  your  letter  to  Mr.  Furness  with  the  Emer- 
sons  in  it.1  My  sister  Margaret  is  staying  with  Mrs. 

1  Dr.  Clarke  did  also  some  funny  drawings  at  that  time,  along  the 
line  of  Mr.  Cranch's  caricatures  of  the  "  moral  influence  of  the  Dial." 


46      CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 

James  Furness,  and  wrote  me  about  it.  She  says  Mr. 
Furness  came  in  one  day  with  your  letter  in  his  hand 
and  showed  her  the  illustrations.  She  says  she  could  not 
laugh  much  because  I  was  not  with  her,  and  we  were  not 
at  home  together.  She  is  delighted  with  William  Fur- 
ness;  says  he  is  the  most  delightful  man  in  conversation, 
and  laughs  with  her  over  "Pickwick,"  and  recites  old 
ballads  to  her  at  twilight.  .  .  . 

I  hope  to  send  you  some  drawings  some  time.  Con 
tinue  yours  to  me.  Tell  me  from  time  to  time  what  you 
preach  about,  and  add  some  poetry  occasionally  to  fill 
up  chinks.  A  letter  from  you  will  reach  me  in  Washing 
ton.  Write  us,  friend  James;  much  will  it  refresh  our 
souls ! 

Heaven  send  you  peace  and  joy  and  all  success  in  your 
ministry!  .  .  . 

From  Philadelphia,  May  27,  1839,  Mr.  Cranch 
in  a  letter  to  the  Misses  Myers,  speaks  of  his  cousin 
William  Furness:  — 

I  see  him  very  frequently,  and  pass  many  of  my  pleas- 
antest  hours  in  his  company.  He  is  a  most  delightful 
man.  I  never  knew  one  who  seemed  to  possess  such  a 
cheerful,  even  temperament.  You  know  he  has  suffered 
much  bodily  pain.  The  other  day,  in  pulling  up  a  bush 
in  his  garden,  he  strained  his  back,  which  is  always  weak, 
and  has  been  unable  to  move  without  great  pain  for 
several  days.  Yet  he  seems  as  cheerful  as  ever.  Yester 
day  he  was  unable  to  preach.  In  the  evening  I  preached 
for  him  after  having  preached  in  the  morning  and  after 
noon  at  the  Northern  Society.  This  is  a  small  society 
which  is  struggling  to  get  along,  in  the  "  Northern  Liber 
ties,"  and  for  which  I  am  engaged  to  preach  for  several 
weeks. 


WESTERN  EXPERIENCES  47 

Of  Mrs.  Butler  (Fanny  Kemble)  he  writes:  — 

This  lady,  who  resides  near  Philadelphia,  I  met  in  the 
country  a  few  evenings  since.  I  was  much  pleased  with 
her,  though  I  had  no  opportunity  of  conversing  with 
her,  but  only  of  hearing  her  converse.  I,  however,  found 
her  out  to  be  a  hot  Abolitionist,  as  nearly  all  the  Eng 
lish  are,  before  the  raw  material  of  their  brains  is  worked 
up  in  the  loom  of  practical  observation.  I  had  no  oppor 
tunity  of  hearing  her  read,  as  I  wished. 

To  Miss  Julia  Myers 

BOSTON,  February  4,  1840. 

...  I  have  many  friends  and  other  sources  of  profit 
and  pleasure  to  attract  me  here,  and  begin  to  like  Boston 
quite  well.  For  books,  lectures,  music,  churches,  literary 
and  refined  society,  it  is  a  great  place.  Boston  has  been 
overrun  with  lectures  this  winter.  I  have  attended  but 
one  course,  —  Mr.  Emerson's  on  the  Age.  This  is 
nearly  completed.  These  lectures  have  been  a  treat 
whose  worth  I  can  find  no  words  to  express.  Emerson 
is  to  me  the  master  mind  of  New  England,  at  least  so 
far  as  depth  and  wonderful  beauty  in  thought,  rare  and 
eloquent  delivery  go.  His  name  will  stand  the  test  of 
time.  I  rank  him  along  with  Carlyle  and  other  stars  of 
the  age.  Emerson's  doctrines,  however,  are  considered 
very  heretical  by  most  persons,  and  by  as  many,  down 
right  atheism,  mysticism,  or  perhaps  nonsense.  Horace 
Mann  being  asked  the  other  day  by  a  lady  how  he  liked 
Mr.  Emerson,  "Madam,"  said  he,  "a  Scotch  mist  is 
perfect  sunshine  to  him!" 

New  England  is  the  place  of  places  for  all  sorts  of 
views.  Things  new  and  old  are  brought  to  light,  and 
have  their  advocates  and  believers,  and  denyers.  We 


48      CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 

have  one  Miller  here,  an  ignorant  preacher,  who  teaches 
that  the  world  is  coming  to  an  end  in  the  year  1843. 
We  have  another  man  who  is  zealous  as  a  flaming  fire  in 
lectures  upon  English  grammar !  —  defying  his  antag 
onists  like  a  second  David.  We  have  had  lectures  on 
the  Turks  by  a  Turk;  on  Switzerland  by  a  German,  the 
lamented  Dr.  Follen;  on  Geology,  on  carbonic  acid  gas, 
on  Eastern  customs,  on  storms,  on  Shakespeare,  and  on 
the  Smithsonian  Legacy  —  and  a  thousand  other  sub 
jects.  In  fact  this  Boston  is  a  very  Athens.  Moreover, 
we  have  grand  orations.  I  have  attended  several.  Books 
we  have  ad  infinitum.  Have  you  read  Professor  Long 
fellow's  "Hyperion"?  It  is  full  of  beautiful  things.  A 
work  of  Jouffroy's,  a  French  philosopher,  is  just  published, 
on  Ethics,  translated  by  William  Channing.  By  the  way, 
I  see  the  Doctor  occasionally,  and  his  daughter  Mary,  — 
do  you  know  her?  Every  Thursday  evening  we  have  a 
little  meeting  of  the  Pierians,  a  musical  society,  where 
we  have  flute  music  and  singing.  So  you  see  something 
of  my  manner  of  life.  It  is  a  sort  of  dissipation.  To-night 
I  am  going  to  a  little  party  to  meet  Roelker,  a  German, 
who  sings  and  plays,  and  is  a  grand  fellow.  ...  I  shall 
have  Mrs.  Lamb's  guitar  to-morrow  in  my  room  to  solace 
my  loneliness  withal.  I  play  scarcely  at  all  on  the  flute 
now.  I  have  taken  to  singing  instead.  I  am  preaching 
for  the  winter  at  a  small  parish  in  South  Boston,  at  the 
foot  of  Dorchester  Heights.  I  have  had  no  invitations 
from  the  muse  for  a  long  time.  I  seem  to  be  in  a  wintry 
state  rather.  I  have  done  nothing  lately.  I  am  most 
miserably  unproductive.  O  for  a  mental  Spring!  O  for 
a  new  budding  of  the  soul!  I  am  an  unprofitable  wretch! 


CHAPTER  IV 

TRANSCENDENTALISM  —  EMERSON  CORRESPONDENCE 

IN  regard  to  the  meaning  of  the  word  "Transcen 
dentalism,"  we  find  a  letter  about  this  time  to  Mr. 
Cranch's  father,  who  had  undoubtedly  read  the 
charges  against  the  "New  Views"  and  Professor 
Andrews  Norton's  pamphlet  reprinting  two  arti 
cles  by  two  divines  of  the  Presbyterian  Church,  — 
Drs.  Alexander  and  Dod,  —  where  "an  exposition 
of  Cousin's  philosophy"  and  the  German  tran 
scendental  philosophy  were  "arraigned,"  says  Mr. 
Lindsay  Swift,  in  his  interesting  book  on  "Brook 
Farm." 

The  young  Transcendentalist  writes:  — 

QUINCY,  MASS.,  July  11,  1840. 
MY  DEAR  FATHER:  — 

I  received  your  letter  of  the  6th  by  Mr.  Green,  day 
before  yesterday,  and  reply  to  it  immediately  on  my  re 
turn  to  Quincy. 

You  express  alarm  at  intimations  you  have  received, 
that  I  am  "inclined  to  the  Transcendental  sentiments 
of  the  German  theologist's,"  and  refer  to  a  statement  of 
"Transcendentalism"  in  the  "Examiner."  The  article 
in  the  "Examiner"  I  have  not  seen,  and  indeed  must 
confess  that  I  know  very  little  about  this  system  of  phi 
losophy.  So  far,  however,  as  I  do  know  anything  about 
it,  I  can  assure  you,  that  it  neither  recommends  itself  to 
rny  mind  nor  heart.  The  philosophy  of  Kant,  Fichte, 
Hegel,  Schelling,  etc.,  which  is  what  I  suppose  to  be  the 


50      CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 

Transcendental  philosophy,  has  always,  from  the  very 
slight  idea  I  have  of  it,  struck  me  as  a  cold,  barren  sys 
tem  of  Idealism,  not  calculated  to  strengthen  the  soul's 
faith  in  the  external  realities  of  the  spiritual  world,  or 
enable  it  as  a  perfect  philosophy  should,  to  give  a  reason 
for  the  hope  that  is  in  us ;  although  to  some  minds  it  may 
have  this  effect.  However  that  may  be,  and  however 
these  Germans  distinguished  themselves  as  profound 
thinkers  and  acute  reasoners,  I  am  very  certain  that  to 
my  mind,  a  philosophy  quite  opposite  to  theirs  has  far 
greater  recommendations.  Though  not  much  inclined 
to  metaphysical  studies,  I  have  found  great  truths  in 
the  philosophy  of  Victor  Cousin  and  his  school,  who 
seems  to  stand  between  both  Locke  and  Kant,  the  two 
extremes.  I  will  only  say  that  while  Kant's  system  seems 
to  me  to  leave  the  soul  without  any  certain  power  of 
knowing  the  great  truths  of  God,  duty,  revelation,  etc., 
Cousin  expressly  contends  for  a  religious  element  in  the 
soul;  a  faculty  breathed  into  us  by  God  Himself,  whereby 
we  become  surer  of  the  existence  of  such  great  truths 
than  of  anything  else.  He  grounds  faith  on  what  is  deep 
est  in  the  soul.  And  his  philosophy  is  spiritual;  is  reli 
gious  in  the  highest  degree,  for  it  effectually  removes 
the  possibility  of  skepticism  by  proving  man  to  be  cre 
ated  a  religious  being,  a  being  who  has  an  inner  light, 
which  can  never  be  entirely  quenched,  whereby  he  ac 
quires  a  knowledge  of  God  and  duty  and  spiritual  things. 
But  somehow  the  name  "Transcendentalist"  has  be 
come  a  nick-name  here  for  all  who  have  broken  away 
from  the  material  philosophy  of  Locke,  and  the  old 
theology  of  many  of  the  early  Unitarians,  and  who  yearn 
for  something  more  satisfying  to  the  soul.  It  has  almost 
become  a  synonym  for  one  who,  in  whatever  way, 
preaches  the  spirit  rather  than  the  letter. 


TRANSCENDENTALISM  51 

The  name  has  been  more  particularly  applied  to  Mr. 
Emerson,  or  those  who  believe  in  or  sympathize  with 
him.  Mr.  Emerson  has  been  said  to  have  imported  his 
doctrine  from  Germany.  But  the  fact  is,  that  no  man 
stands  more  independently  of  other  minds  than  he  does. 
He  seems  to  me  very  far  from  Kant  or  Fichte.  His 
writings  breathe  the  very  spirit  of  religion  and  faith. 
Whatever  his  speculations  may  be,  there  is  nothing  in 
anything  he  says,  which  is  inconsistent  with  Christianity. 

I  can  assure  you  that  my  faith  is  as  strong  as  it  ever 
was,  in  the  truth  and  the  divine  origin  of  Christianity. 
I  believe  that  no  man  ever  was  inspired,  spoke,  or  lived 
like  Jesus  Christ.  What  my  intellect  receives  must  ac 
cord  with  the  blessed  revelation  to  my  heart  and  con 
science.  God  cannot  utter  two  voices. 

It  is  convenient  to  have  a  name  which  may  cover  all 
those  who  contend  for  perfect  freedom,  who  look  for 
progress  in  philosophy  and  theology,  and  who  sympa 
thize  with  each  other  in  the  hope  that  the  future  will  not 
always  be  as  the  past,  The  name  "Transcendentalist" 
seems  to  be  thus  fixed  upon  all  who  profess  to  be  on  the 
movement  side,  however  they  may  differ  among  them 
selves.  But  union  in  sympathy  differs  from  union  in  be 
lief.  Since  we  cannot  avoid  names,  I  prefer  the  term 
"New  School"  to  the  other  long  name.  This  could  com 
prehend  all  free  seekers  after  truth,  however  their  opin 
ions  differ. 

All  Unitarians  should  be  of  this  school,  but  I  must 
confess  that  there  are  several  of  the  Orthodox  who  more 
properly  belong  to  it  than  do  many  Unitarians.  There  is 
certainly  an  old  and  a  new  school  of  Unitarianism. 

His  belief  was  more  fully  and  decidedly  expressed, 
a  little  later,  in  his  journal:  "Men  will  never  agree 


52      CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 

about  the  fundamentals  of  Christianity  as  long  as 
they  are  possessed  with  the  idea  that  Christ  came 
to  teach  a  system  of  doctrines.  The  only  steadfast 
ground  to  be  taken  is  that  Christ  came  as  a  spiritual 
reformer,  not  as  an  instituter  of  new  doctrines." 

In  his  journal  he  speaks  of  having  consigned  to 
the  flames  twenty-four  of  his  sermons,  saying  that 
others  would  soon  follow.  He  thus  states  his  growth 
from  the  old  ideas  to  the  new:  "They  are  old  clothes. 
I  feel  myself  too  large  to  get  into  them  again.  I  do 
not  stand  where  I  stood  a  year  ago." 

Lindsay  Swift  in  his  "Brook  Farm"  says:  — 

The  appearance  of  Cranch  at  Brook  Farm  was  always 
an  event.  This  uncircumscribed  genius,  by  his  very 
presence,  made  everybody  forget  the  dilapidated  con 
dition  of  the  parlor  furniture  at  the  Hive;  and  by  his 
singing,  which  he  himself  accompanied  either  with 
guitar  or  piano,  he  contrived  to  infuse  an  atmosphere  of 
affluence  into  the  place  which  lent  grace  and  elegance  to 
this  little  world.  Curtis  says  that  he  became  simultane 
ously  acquainted  with  Cranch  and  Schubert;  for  Cranch 
had  made  a  manuscript  copy  of  the  "Serenade,"  which 
he  sang  with  such  deep  feeling  as  to  move  sensibly  his 
audience;  and  when,  on  his  first  visit  to  the  Farm,  he 
sang  the  ballad  "Here's  a  health  to  ane  I  lo'e  dear," 
,  tears  were  the  tribute  from  some  who  heard  him.  His 
powers  of  entertainment  were  almost  unlimited:  he  had 
a  good  baritone  voice;  he  played  piano,  guitar,  flute,  or 
violin  as  the  occasion  came;  he  read  from  his  own  poems 
or  travesties;  and  his  ventriloquism,  which  embraced  all 
the  sounds  of  nature  and  of  mechanical  devices,  from  the 
denizens  of  the  barnyard  to  the  shriek  of  the  railway 
locomotive,  held  the  younger  members  spellbound  with 
amusement,  or  led  to  loud  expressions  of  approval. 


TRANSCENDENTALISM  53 

In  personal  appearance  he  was  of  the  picturesque 
type  of  beauty,  with  much  dark,  curling  hair,  a  broad 
forehead,  delicately  cut  features,  and  great  sensitive 
ness  of  expression.  Tall,  slight,  and  graceful,  he  was  an 
alluring  presence  at  all  times,  and  especially  when,  as  at 
Brook  Farm,  his  imagination  was  kindled  and  his  sym 
pathies  strongest. 

Another  glimpse  of  Mr.  Cranch  at  Brook  Farm 
is  given  in  "Years  of  Experience,"  by  Georgiana 
Bruce  Kirby:  — 

On  the  dreariest  of  winter  days,  when  the  sleet  and 
biting  wind  detained  at  the  Hive  the  few  women  who 
had  ventured  down  the  hill  to  supper,  and  caused  quite 
a  bustle  in  the  kitchen,  putting  up  meals  for  those  who 
had  remained  behind,  the  omnibus  arrived  with  no  less 
a  person  than  C.  P.  Cranch,  the  preacher,  poet,  musician, 
and  painter.  How  a  simple,  affluent  individual  puts  one 
at  ease!  We  apologize  to  the  impoverished  and  dull- 
witted  alone.  The  furniture  of  the  little  reception  room 
was  beginning  to  look  exceedingly  shabby,  but  I  am  sure 
no  one  noticed  the  fact,  when  that  evening,  our  visitor 
sang  to  the  notes  of  his  guitar :  — 

"  Here's  a  health  to  ane  I  lo'e  dear.'* 

"  Take  thou,  where  thou  dost  glide, 
This  deep-dyed  rose,  O  river,"  — 

melting  to  tears  the  more  susceptible  of  his  sympa 
thetic  audience.  That  night  no  one  of  us  doubted  that 
we,  who  were  permitted  to  hear,  were  the  most  favored 
of  the  gods.  No  after  quartettes  on  the  violin,  in  which 
Mr.  Cranch  took  part;  no  weird  passages  from  the  Erl 
King,  with  mysterious,  awe-inspiring  piano  accompani 
ment;  no  charming  caricatures  from  his  notebook  of 
"The  Experience  of  the  Child  Christopher  down  East," 


54      CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 

or  of  the  Harvard  mill  grinding  out  ministers,  could 
efface  the  tender  impression  made  by  the  ballads  which 
he  sang  in  the  poor  little  parlor  on  that  first  evening. 

Mr.  Cranch  was  invited  to  deliver  a  poem  at  the 
two  hundredth  anniversary  of  the  incorporation 
of  the  town  of  Quincy  at  the  First  Church,  May  25, 
1840. 

"The  spell  of  Beauty  is  upon  the  hills, 
The  fields,  the  forest,  and  the  leaping  rills, 
For  Spring  hath  breathed  upon  us,  and  the  hours 
Move  to  the  dial  of  the  budding  flowers. 
Joy  to  ye,  leaves  and  blossoms  —  ye  are  springing 
Fast  to  the  melodies  around  you  ringing: 
New  life,  new  thought,  midst  tame  and  common  things." 

Then  he  speaks  of  the  contrast,  the  sternness,  the 
barrenness  of  the  scene,  and  of  the  Pilgrim  Fathers, 
of  their  high  aims,  and  deep  religious  cult. 

In  another  measure  comes  a  very  devout  "Hymn 
of  the  Pilgrims":  — 

"Hear  us,  almighty  Father! 
No  light  but  thy  great  eye  above  us  shines ! 

Darker  and  darker  gather 

,     The  shades  of  twilight  through  the  moaning  pines  — 

Hear  while  we  pray ! 

"Hear  us,  thou  great  Jehovah! 
When,  wandering  through  the  tangled  wilderness, 

Cloud  after  cloud  goes  over, 
Forsake  us  not  in  our  loneliness ! 

Shield  us  to-night! 

"Guard  us  from  every  danger, 
Thou,  who  hast  ever  been  our  sun  and  shield, 

When  trials  deeper  and  stranger 
Swept  o'er  us,  as  the  wind  sweeps  o'er  the  field ! 
O  guard  us  still ! 

"From  the  wild  foeman's  arrow  — 
From  the  dread  pestilence  that  walks  unseen  — 


TRANSCENDENTALISM  55 

From  sickness  and  from  sorrow, 
And  more  than  all,  from  hearts  and  lips  unclean, 
Save  us,  O  God! 

"  And  unto  thee,  great  Spirit, 
All  that  we  are  and  have  would  we  commit;  — 

Not  for  thy  children's  merit, 
But  through  thy  own  free  grace,  so  clearly  writ, 
Keep  us,  we  pray ! " 

The  poem  goes  on  to  speak  of  the  superstition, 
narrowness,  and  even  ignorance,  contrasted  with 
the  better  forms  of  a  later  religion.  He  cannot  re 
sist  contrasting  that  older  faith  with  more  liberal 
ideas. 

The  poem  is  rather  long,  but  there  are  some  fine 
verses  in  it.  It  is  not  "stuff,"  as  he  has  written  to 
his  friend  John  Dwight.  Mr.  Cranch  had  that 
mauvaise  Jionte  which  never  appreciated  himself, 
especially  in  those  early  days.  It  was  sent  to  his 
friend  Miss  Julia  Myers  who  marked  in  it  the  best 
verses.  In  another  place  I  find,  "How  like  C.  P.  C. "; 
and  at  the  end,  "Tres  bien,  mon  ami  Christophe!" 
in  her  handwriting. 

To  Miss  Julia  Myers 

QUINCY,  May  29,  1840. 

...  I  have  been  for  over  five  weeks  in  Portland, 
supplying  Dr.  Nichols's  pulpit  during  his  absence  in  the 
South.  Have  you  seen  anything  of  him?  I  enjoyed  my 
self  hugely  in  Portland.  Saw  a  good  deal  of  society, 
visited,  went  to  parties,  renewed  old  acquaintances,  and 
formed  new  ones,  sang  everywhere,  and  was  quite  a  lion 
in  this  way,  pro  tern.  Portland  for  society,  of  ladies  es 
pecially,  is  one  of  the  pleasantest  places  I  ever  was  in. 
I  had  a  golden  time  there.  ...  I  came  away  to  attend 
the  Centennial  celebration  in  Quincy.  It  was  the  two 


56      CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 

hundredth  anniversary  of  the  naming  of  the  original 
town  of  Braintree,  the  old  name  of  Quincy,  on  which 
occasion  I  delivered  a  poem.  We  had  a  great  day  of  it,  — 
orations,  processions,  music,  dinner  of  six  or  seven  hun 
dred  persons  under  a  large  pavilion,  toasts,  sentiments, 
speeches,  etc.,  etc.  Things  went  off  generally  very  well. 
Reverend  George  Whitney's  discourse  was  excellent.  Of 
your  humble  servant's  performances  it  behooveth  not  me 
to  speak;  but  they  seemed  to  please,  and  I  think  parts 
of  the  poem  are  quite  respectable.  It  did  well  enough  to 
deliver.  The  season  is  charming  here  now.  I  never  saw 
trees  and  fields  so  luxuriantly  green.  Fruits  we  have 
none  yet,  —  a  few  flowers.  With  you  it  is  hottest  sum 
mer.  Do  you  not  envy  us  Yankees  one  or  two  of  our  East 
winds  occasionally? 

To  John  S.  Dwight 

QUINCY,  MASS.,  June  19,  1840. 

.  .  .  And  now  let  me  recall  your  letter.  I  thank  you  for 
your  account  of  your  delightful  environment.  You  seem 
to  be  in  a  paradise.  Verily  I  would  I  could  be  with  you 
a  few  days.  I  must  try  to  manage  it  this  summer.  I  hear 
so  much  of  Northampton,  and  know  nothing  of  it.  But 
I,  too,  have  been  in  Arcady  this  spring  and  summer.  In 
this  leafy  month  of  June,  I  can  sit  in  the  old  hall  of  my 
father's,1  surrounded  by  old  whispering  ancestral  trees 
—  and  hear  the  birds  —  singing  forever.  The  singing 
of  the  birds  is  all  new  to  me  this  year.  It  seems  as  if  I 
had  never  listened  to  them  before. 

I  mean  soon  to  visit  Emerson,  and  he  shall  impart 
some  knowledge  of  the  different  "wandering  voices" 
which  fill  the  air  and  woods. 

1  The  old  Cranch  and  Greenleaf  home  in  Quincy. 


TRANSCENDENTALISM  57 

To  John  S.  Dwight 

QUINCY,  November  20,  1840. 

...  I  have  just  returned  from  Hingham.  I  walked 
over  yesterday  morning,  attended  church  and  commun 
ion,  and  preached  for  Mr.  Stearns  in  the  afternoon,  and 
in  the  evening  we  had  a  rather  interesting  conversation 
meeting  in  a  schoolroom,  where  there  were,  I  should 
think,  one  hundred  persons.  I  thought  it  something  re 
markable,  a  sign  of  life  at  least,  that  so  large  an  assembly 
should  come  voluntarily  to  a  conversation  on  religious 
subjects.  Mr.  Stearns  has  great  influence,  love  and  re 
spect  among  the  people  there,  and  it  seems  to  spring  sim 
ply  from  his  entire  simplicity,  truthfulness,  and  earnest 
ness.  He  is  perfectly  transparent,  and  has  such  a  plain, 
direct,  solemn  way  of  speaking  from  the  heart  to  the 
heart,  that  he  seems  to  win  everybody.  Both  in  pulpit 
and  parlor  he  is  completely  independent  and  fearless. 
He  has  all  the  spirit  of  a  reformer;  is  quite  transcenden 
tal,  though  he  preaches  Christ  more  prominently  than 
some  of  us ;  is  deeply  alive  to  the  evils  of  our  present  reli 
gious  and  social  institutions,  and  ready  to  be  one  of  the 
first  to  attempt  change  and  renovation  therein,  in  the 
sphere  of  his  influence.  I  don't  know  where  I  have  met 
a  more  liberal  and  earnest  soul.  There  is  no  sham  about 
him,  depend  upon  it,  —  no  dark  cobwebbed  corners. 
You  might  turn  him  inside  out  and  find  him  everywhere 

clean. 

"On  every  side  he  open  was  as  day 
That  you  might  see  no  lack  of  strength  within." 

...  I  have  dreamed,  really  dreamed  in  sleep,  of 
Northampton  several  times  since  I  left.  My  visit  there 
seems  to  have  enlarged  and  embellished  my  possessions 
and  estate  in  dreamland  considerably.  It  was  a  good 
speculation  that  way,  —  my  going  up  to  see  you.  I  as- 


58      CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 

sure  you  I  have  beautiful  dreams  of  you  all  sometimes, 
but  so  shadowy,  —  so  vague.  I  have  a  strange  fashion 
in  my  dreams  of  seeing  the  features  and  feeling  the  pres 
ence  of  several  persons,  who  are  yet  one  person;  and  of 
mingling  many  places,  which  are  at  the  same  time  one 
place.  I  would  cultivate  the  art  of  dreaming,  were  I  you. 
I  made  a  visit  of  a  week  at  Parker's,  immediately  on 
my  return  from  Northampton.  Parker  was  taken  ill 
suddenly  at  Chelsea,  while  preaching,  and  I  went  out  to 
Spring  Street,  expecting  to  find  him  on  his  back,  the 
nurse,  doctor  and  wife  and  aunt  all  in  attendance,  — • 
but  no,  the  creature  was  up  and  alive,  laughing  and  work 
ing  and  digging  at  Sanctus  Bernardus  like  a  very  Theo 
dore  Parker  as  he  was.  You  might  as  well  put  a  young 
steam  engine  to  bed,  cover  it  up  and  give  it  physic,  as 
this  marvellous  creature.  The  learned  Theban  was  by 
no  means  dieting  in  the  article  of  books,  though  forced 
to  do  so  in  profane,  vulgar,  material  eatables  and  drink 
ables. 

To  Ralph  Waldo  Emerson 

BOSTON,  March  2,  1840. 

If  the  enclosed  pieces  are  worthy  a  place  in  the  New 
Magazine  with  which  I  understand  you  are  to  be  con 
nected,  will  you  stand  as  their  godfather,  or  dispose  of 
them  as  you  think  best? 

And  may  I  take  this  occasion,  to  express  what  I  have 
long  wished  to  do,  my  deep  gratitude  for  the  instruction 
and  delight  I  have  derived  from  all  your  productions, 
published  and  spoken.  I  utter  no  hollow  compliments 
or  vain  imaginings  when  I  say  that  I  have  owed  to  you 
more  quickening  influences  and  more  elevating  views 
in  shaping  my  faith,  than  I  can  ever  possibly  express 
to  you.  From  my  very  heart  I  thank  you.  With  what 


EMERSON  CORRESPONDENCE        59 

delight  I  have  read  and  listened  to  you,  eold  words  like 
these,  have  no  force  to  utter.  I  trust,  therefore,  you  will 
pardon  this  expression  of  my  gratitude  and  admira 
tion,  which  could  not  have  been  restrained,  while  ad 
dressing  you,  without  pain. 

Ralph  Waldo  Emerson  to  Mr.  Cranch 

CONCORD,  4th  March,  1840. 

I  thank  you  for  the  beautiful  verses  which  I  have  read 
and  re-read  with  great  content.  The  first  piece  1  is  true 
and  the  second  is  brilliant;  I  do  not  know  which  I  like 
the  best,  for  I  am  wonderfully  taken  in  the  "Aurora"2 
with  the  "Ripples  over  the  stars,"  which  is  so  true  and 
descriptive,  and,  I  believe,  with  a  certain  Miltonic  tone 
in  "the  air  that  freezes  around  the  Pleiades."  I  am  sure 
that  my  friend,  the  fair  editor  of  our  yet  unsunned  jour 
nal  [the  "Dial"]  will  be  greatly  obliged  by  these  con 
tributions.  To  me  they  are  welcome  as  one  more  authen 
tic  sign  —  added  to  four  or  five  I  have  reckoned  already 
—  of  a  decided  poetic  taste,  and  tendency  to  original 
observation  in  our  Cambridge  circle.  I  call  it  Cambridge, 
because  it  is  not  confined  to  Boston,  though  it  does  not 
extend  far. 

Within  a  year  my  contemporaries  have  risen  very 
much  in  my  respect,  for,  within  that  period,  I  have  learned 
to  know  the  genius  of  several  persons  who  now  fill  me 
with  pleasure  and  hope.  My  dear  sir,  I  recognize  with 
joy  your  sympathy  with  me  in  the  same  tastes  and 
thoughts,  in  the  kind,  though  extravagant,  expression 
of  your  letter.  If  my  thoughts  have  interested  you,  it 
only  shows  how  much  they  were  already  yours.  Will  you 
not,  when  our  fields  have  grown  a  little  more  invitingly 

1  "  Thought  is  deeper  than  all  speech." 

2  The  Aurora  Borealis. 


60      CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 

green,  make  a  leisure  day  and  come  up  hither  alone,  and 
let  us  compare  notes  a  little  farther,  to  see  how  well  our 
experiences  tally.  I  will  show  you  Walden  Pond,  and  our 
Concord  poet  too,  Henry  Thoreau. 

To  Ralph  Waldo  Emerson 

FISHKILL  LANDING,  NEW  YORK, 
September  12,  1841. 

The  favor  you  showed  to  some  little  pieces  of  mine 
some  time  since,  and  the  pleasant  hours  of  intercourse  I 
have  enjoyed  with  you  under  your  roof  and  occasionally 
in  Boston,  encouraged  me  to  trouble  you  with  a  few  more 
verses,  which  you  are  at  liberty  to  give  to  the  "Dial" 
or  to  the  poet's  corner  of  your  "Portfolio"  as  you  please. 
They  were  written  last  winter,  since  which  time  an  affec 
tion  of  the  head  has  indisposed  me  almost  entirely  to  any 
inspiration  or  mental  labor. 

I  have  been  spending  the  summer  at  the  South,  and 
have  lately  taken  very  vigorously  to  landscape  painting, 
which  I  am  strongly  tempted  to  follow  in  future  instead 
of  sermon  writing.  It  is  an  art  I  have  fondly  looked  at 
from  boyhood.  Whether  I  turn  artist  or  not,  I  become 
more  and  more  inclined  to  sink  the  minister  in  the  man, 
and  abandon  my  present  calling  in  toto  as  a  profession. 
Verily  our  churches  will  force  us  to  it  whether  we  will  or 
not. 

Once  more,  my  dear  sir,  permit  me  to  express  my  en 
thusiastic  admiration  and  love  of  your  writings.  You 
must  pardon  me,  but  I  am  constrained  to  tell  you  what 
I  never  could  do  in  speech,  though  I  have  so  often  wished 
to.  I  feel  now  as  if  I  should  be  guilty  of  a  poor  and  un 
natural  reserve,  were  I  in  writing  to  you,  to  be  silent  in 
this  matter.  The  rare  beauty  of  your  style  is  but  the  first 
charm  of  your  books  to  me.  They  are  wells  of  deep  truth, 


EMERSON  CORRESPONDENCE        61 

which  I  feel  as  if  I  could  never  exhaust  —  full  of  that 
"divine  philosophy"  which  is  described  as 

"A  perpetual  feast  of  nectared  sweets 
where  no  crude  surfeit  reigns." 

Your  thoughts  have  had  a  deep  influence  on  my  faith  and 
opinions.  There  are  no  writings  of  the  day  which  have  so 
captivated  me,  and  afforded  such  matter  for  profound 
thought  as  yours.  I  read  them  again  and  again,  and  see 
new  truth  and  beauty  at  every  new  reading.  Again  I  ask 
pardon  for  such  blunt  praise,  but  again  plead  an  irresisti 
ble  call  to  speak  from  a  full  heart.  It  is  less  to  praise  you, 
my  dear  sir,  for  what  is  praise  to  you,  than  to  acknowl 
edge  a  great  debt  of  mine. 

Ralph  Waldo  Emerson  to  Mr.  Cranch 

CONCORD,  October  1,  1841. 

With  my  hearty  thanks  for  your  wise,  wistful  verses, 
which  I  read  with  great  pleasure,  not  only  for  their  tane- 
fulness  and  particular  merits,  but  for  what  I  admire  still 
more,  their  continuity  of  thought  and  unity  of  plan  —  I 
hasten  to  write  that  an  apology  may  reach  you  before  the 
knowledge  of  the  offence.  I  sent  them  very  soon  to  Miss 
Fuller,  who,  seizing  them  as  editors  seize  such  godsends, 
found  them  a  succor  of  Apollo  for  her  closing  pages.  The 
printer  took  them  and  Miss  Fuller  left  town.  It  now  ap 
pears  that  there  was  not  space  enough  in  the  number  left 
to  print  the  whole,  and,  Apollo  and  all  gods  having  left 
the  printer  to  his  own  madness,  he  printed  the  first  half, 
the  "In world,"  and  left  the  "Outworld"  out.1  The  proof 
which  had  been  directed  to  be  sent  to  me,  only  arrived 

1  My  father  wrote  for  the  Dial,  the  Inworld  and  the  Outworld. 
These  were  separated  by  a  mistake  of  the  printer,  the  first  part  ap 
pearing  alone.  Mr.  Emerson  writes  this  delightful  letter  in  conse 
quence,  to  my  father  at  Fishkill. 


62      CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 

this  morning.  Miss  Fuller  is  here,  with  Mr.  Metcalf's 
compliments,  explaining  that  he  could  not  wait  for  cor 
rection,  as  he  had  been  foiled  in  opportunities  of  sending, 
and  the  'Dial9  would  appear  to-day.  Our  only  amends 
now  possible  in  this  great  wrath  of  the  muses  and  their 
diabolical  coadjutors,  is  to  declare  to  you  that  the  piece 
shall  appear  whole  in  the  next  number,  with  apology  for 
the  divorce  in  the  last.  Let  me  now  take  breath  to  con 
gratulate  you  on  what  is  grateful  to  me  in  your  letter; 
that  you  dwell  in  a  beautiful  country,  that  the  beauty  of 
natural  forms  will  not  let  you  rest,  but  you  must  serve 
and  celebrate  them  with  your  pencil,  and  that  at  all  haz 
ards  you  must  quit  the  pulpit  as  a  profession,  I  learn 
without  surprise,  yet  with  great  interest,  and  with  the 
best  hope.  The  Idea  that  rises  with  more  or  less  lustre  on 
all  our  minds,  that  unites  us  all,  will  have  its  way  and 
must  be  obeyed.  We  sympathize  very  strictly  with  each 
other,  so  much  so,  that  with  great  novelty  of  position  and 
theory,  a  considerable  company  of  intelligent  persons 
now  seem  quite  transparent  and  monotonous  to  each 
other.  I  have  no  doubt  that  whilst  great  sacrifices  will 
need  to  be  made  by  some  to  truth  and  freedom  —  by 
some  at  first,  by  all  sooner  or  later,  —  great  compensa 
tions  will  overpay  their  integrity,  and  fidelity  to  their 
own  heart.  Indeed,  each  of  these  beautiful  talents  which 
add  such  splendor  and  grace  to  the  most  polished  socie 
ties,  have  their  basis  at  last  in  private  and  personal  mag 
nanimities,  in  untold  honesty  and  inviolable  delicacy. 
The  multitude,  when  they  hear  the  song  or  see  the  pic 
ture,  do  not  suspect  its  profound  origin.  But  the  great 
will  know  it,  not  by  anecdote  but  by  sympathy  and 
divination. 

May  the  richest  success  attend  your  pencil  and  your 
pen.   I  wish  I  had  any  good  news  to  tell  you.   You  will 


EMERSON  CORRESPONDENCE        63 

like  to  know  that  Miss  Fuller  transfers  the  publication  of 
the  "Dial,"  —  now  that  Mr.  Ripley  withdraws  from  all 
interest  in  the  direction,  —  from  Jordan  to  Miss  Pea- 
body,  an  arrangement  that  promises  to  be  greatly  more 
satisfactory  to  Miss  Fuller,  and  so  to  all  of  us,  than  the 
former  one.  Do  not,  I  entreat  you,  cease  to  give  us  good 
will  and  good  verses.  We  shall  need  them  more  than  ever 
in  the  time  to  come;  and  yet  I  hope  the  journal,  which 
seems  to  grow  in  grace  with  men,  will  by  and  by  be  able 
to  make  its  acknowledgments,  at  least  to  its  younger 
contributors.  I  remain  your  debtor  for  your  kind  and 
quite  extravagant  estimate  of  my  poor  pages.  I  have  a 
pamphlet  in  press  which  I  call  "The  Method  of  Nature," 
an  oration  delivered  lately  at  Waterville,  Maine,  which  I 
shall  take  the  liberty  to  send  to  you  as  soon  as  it  appears, 
if  I  can  learn  in  town  that  you  are  to  remain  at  Fishkill. 
I  have  heard  lately  from  Harriet  Martineau  and  Carlyle. 
The  former  writes  about  the  latter,  that  he  is  —  fault  of 
his  nervous  constitution  —  the  most  miserable  man  she 
knows;  but  that  lately  he  seems  greatly  better,  and  was 
happy  at  her  house  at  Tynemouth  for  two  whole  days. 
Carlyle  writes  that  he  has  left  London  and  removed  to 
Newington  Lodge,  Annan,  Scotland,  but  of  his  works  or 
projects,  saith  no  word. 

To  Ralph  Waldo  Emerson,  with  a  copy  of  Mr.  Crouch's 
first  poems  which  he  dedicated  to  him 

NEW  YORK,  May  22,  1844. 
DEAR  SIR:  — 

I  should  have  sent  you  my  little  book  before  now,  had 
I  received  my  copies  sooner.  I  trust  you  will  pardon  the 
delay,  and  more  especially  the  liberty  I  have  taken  to 
place  your  name  on  the  dedication  page  without  having 
apprised  you  of  it  beforehand. 


64      CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 

Pray  receive  this  hasty  note  in  the  light  of  some  fuller 
testimony  it  would  give  me  pleasure  to  send  of  the  ad 
miration  and  regard  of 

Yours  truly, 

C.  P.  CRANCH. 

Ralph  Waldo  Emerson  to  Mr.  Cranck 

CONCORD,  June  7,  1844. 

I  received  a  few  days  ago,  in  Boston,  the  beautiful  little 
volume  of  poems  which  you  had  sent  me,  and  on  opening 
them  and  your  letter,  I  found  the  deeper  obligation  you 
had  put  me  under,  by  the  inscription.  Had  you  asked 
me  beforehand,  I  should  have  said,  "Be  it  far  from  thee, 
Lord!"  for  I  dare  not  sit  for  a  moment  in  the  chair,  and 
all  the  skill  I  have  is  to  study  in  the  youngest  class.  As 
you  have  thrust  me  into  place,  I  must  only  hope  that  your 
fair  and  friendly  book  shall  not  suffer  by  the  choice,  and 
then  thank  you  for  the  noble  gift. 

I  am  glad  to  find  my  old  friends  in  the  book,  as  well  as 
new  ones,  and,  throughout,  the  same  sweetness  and  ele 
gance  of  versification  which  I  admired  in  the  pieces  which 
adorned  our  first  "Dials."  But  I  should  like  to  talk  over 
with  you  very  frankly  this  whole  mystery  and  craft  of 
poesy.  I  shall  soon,  I  hope,  send  you  my  chapter  on  "the 
Poet,"  the  longest  piece,  perhaps,  in  the  volume  I  am 
trying  to  bring  to  an  end,  if  I  do  not  become  disgusted 
with  the  shortcomings  of  any  critical  essay,  on  a  topic  so 
subtle  and  defying.  Many,  many  repentances  he  must 
suffer  who  turns  his  thoughts  to  the  riddle  of  the  world, 
and  hopes  to  chant  it  fitly;  each  new  vision  supersedes 
and  discredits  all  the  former  ones,  and  with  every  day 
the  problem  wears  a  grander  aspect,  and  will  not  let  the 
poet  off  so  lightly  as  he  meant;  it  reacts,  and  threatens  to 
absorb  him.  He  must  be  the  best  mixed  man  in  the  uni- 


EMERSON  CORRESPONDENCE        65 

verse,  or  the  universe  will  drive  him  crazy  when  he  comes 
too  near  its  secret.  Of  course,  I  am  a  vigorous,  cruel 
critic,  and  demand  in  the  poet  a  devotion  that  seems 
hardly  possible  in  our  hasty,  facile  America.  But  you 
must  wait  a  little,  and  see  my  chapter  that  I  promise,  to 
know  the  ground  of  my  exorbitancy:  and  yet  it  will 
doubtless  have  nothing  new  for  you.  Meantime  I  am  too 
old  a  lover  of  actual  literature,  not  to  prize  all  real  skill 
and  success  in  numbers,  not  only  as  a  pledge  of  a  more 
excellent  life  in  the  poet,  but  for  the  new  culture  and 
happiness  it  promises  to  the  great  community  around  us. 
So  I  am  again  your  debtor,  and  your  grateful  and  affec 
tionate  servant, 

R.  W.  EMERSON. 


CHAPTER  V 

PAINTING  —  MARRIAGE 

1  IN  1841  there  enters  into  my  father's  life  a  new  ele 
ment.  To  occupy  himself  while  he  had  some  dis 
temper  which  prevented  him  from  writing  or  think- 

,-  ing  for  the  time  being,  he  turned  to  painting.  His 
brother  John  had  given  some  time  to  portrait  paint 
ing,  afterwards  studying  abroad.  Some  very  good 
portraits  remain  in  the  family,  attesting  by  their 
worth  his  ability  in  that  direction. 

At  that  time  in  America  painting  and  music  as 
professions  were  generally  very  lightly  regarded. 
When  my  father  was  about  to  decide  upon  a  pro 
fession,  he  considered  the  ministry  the  only  one  left 
him  to  his  taste.  His  brother  Edward  was  a  lawyer, 
and  for  a  doctor  he  seemed  entirely  unfitted.  He 
speaks  thus  of  the  beginning  of  this  great  change  in 
his  life:  — 

In  the  winter  of  1841 1  passed  several  weeks  in  Bangor, 
Maine,  where  I  preached  for  Dr.  F.  H.  Hedge  during  his 
absence.  But  I  was  far  from  well,  suffering  from  a  trouble 
in  my  head  and  brain.  In  the  spring  I  was  at  home  in 
Washington,  where  we  had  my  brother  Edward  and  his 
bride  for  a  short  visit.  As  I  was  not  very  well,  it  was  a 
great  solace  and  delight  to  me  when  I  began  here  my  first 
attempts  at  oil  painting. 

The  following  extracts  from  a  letter  to  Miss  Myers  tell 
of  these  first  crude  beginnings  in  my  artistic  career.1 
1  Autobiography. 


PAINTING  67 

WASHINGTON,  August  2, 1841. 

I  am  actually  at  present  almost  too  busy  during  the 
day  to  write  or  read.  I  have  for  the  last  week  given  up 
everything  but  the  brush,  —  yes,  the  brush,  —  the  glori 
ous  brush  and  palette!  I  have  come  to  it  at  last,  and  am 
anxiously  at  work  —  alias  daubing  landscapes.  I  first 
tried  modelling  in  clay.  One  day  while  ransacking  the 
old  garret,  which,  by  the  way,  is  the  greatest  curiosity 
shop  in  the  country,  containing  the  strangest  odds  and 
ends  of  forty  years'  housekeeping,  on  the  strict  principle 
of  throwing  nothing  away,  not  even  an  old  shoe  or  an  iron 
hoop,  or  a  rusty  nail,  or  an  empty  bottle  —  ransacking,  I 
say,  this  queer  old  musty  garret,  I  forget  for  what,  I  came 
upon  a  great  lump  of  clay  left  here  by  Powers,1  the  sculp 
tor.  I  immediately  went  to  work,  daubing  in  the  sticky 
materials,  and  modelled  a  few  faces,  then  proceeded  to 
taking  likenesses  therein:  tried  at  my  brother  William 
and  my  sister  Margaret.  But  as  my  busts  were  by  no 
means  flattering,  I  was  not  encouraged  much,  and  very 
soon  laid  aside  the  spatula,  and  struck  into  another  field. 

The  success  of  two  friends  of  mine  at  landscape  paint 
ing  has  mightily  moved  me  to  enter  the  lists,  as  a  knight 
of  the  palette. 

In  a  moment  of  superabundant  inspiration  I  went  me 
to  Fischer's  store  and  bought  me  divers  colors,  brushes, 
a  palette,  palette-knife,  et  cetera,  hunted  up  an  old  scrap 
of  canvas  and  an  easel,  left  in  the  aforesaid  garret  by  my 
brother  John,  and  forthwith  set  up  a  studio,  —  ahem! 
Unfortunately  I  have  taken  no  lessons,  save  a  few  hints 
picked  up  from  my  artist  friends  aforesaid,  who  encour 
aged  me  mightily,  and  offer  to  give  me  what  information 
they  are  masters  of  in  the  art.  For  a  week  I  have  been 
painting  steadily,  and  think  with  my  friends  that  I  do 
1  Hiram  Powers  made  a  fine  bust  of  Judge  Cranch. 


68      CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 

remarkably  well  for  a  beginning.  I  feel  encouraged  to  go 
on.  It  is  moreover  a  real  blessing  to  me,  for  I  needed 
something  to  occupy  me  pleasantly,  without  tasking  my 
mind.  I  feel,  while  painting,  as  if  I  were  amid  the  very 
scenes  which  my  inexperienced  brush  attempts  to  por 
tray.  It  is  living  with  nature.  It  is  more,  for  I  feel  the 
joy  of  a  creator,  as  if  I  were  the  spring,  —  making  the 
trees  put  out  leaves  and  unloosing  the  purling  streams, 
and  rolling  them  down  their  rocky  beds,  calling  up  clouds, 
and  lighting  them  with  sunset  glories.  The  mere  attempt 
ing  to  do  this  is  an  infinite  pleasure  to  me.  In  fine,  I  am 
in  love  with  my  palette  and  easel.  I  only  want  some  ele 
mentary  instruction  in  coloring  and  a  proper  supply  of 
canvas,  and  I  am  a  sovereign  on  my  throne.  I  do  not 
know  how  long  this  fit  will  last,  but  I  certainly  have  had 
a  little  foretaste  of  the  joys  of  the  artist,  and  it  seems  to 
me,  I  could  never  grow  weary  of  the  work.  I  have  at 
tempted  nothing  but  small  sketches  as  yet,  but  long  to 
launch  into  something  larger.  Why  may  I  not  pursue  it 
eventually  as  a  profession?  It  is  a  precarious  one,  I  know, 
to  earn  a  livelihood  by,  but  not  less  so  than  that  of  a 
minister,  a  free  speaker,  —  I  mean,  in  the  present  crisis 
of  things.  I  shall  therefore  work  on,  and  trust  in  Provi 
dence. 

To  John  S.  Dwight 

BANGOR,  ME.,  February  12,  1841. 

.  .  .  Thy  letter  was  as  the  rennet  which  turneth  the 
watery  milk  into  the  rich  coagulum  of  curds,  —  the 
chemical  element  wanting  to  the  union  of  half  intention 
and  performance.  For  my  long  silence  you  must  in  part 
charge  my  bodily  system  —  for  I  have  not  been,  and  am 
not  well,  and  my  ailment  is  of  a  kind  to  depress  and  ren 
der  unelastic  both  mind  and  will.  While  this  trouble  of 


PAINTING  69 

the  head  lasts,  both  enjoyment  and  endeavor  are  damped. 
Nothing  is  whole,  bright,  and  perfect  to  me.  I  have  no 
inspirations.  Thought,  eloquence,  and  poetry  desert  me. 
Preaching  and  praying  are  fallen  into  traditions,  and 
things  of  routine.  I  live  —  that  is  all.  Nothing  interests 
me  but  what  excites  or  amuses.  Music  and  drawing  I  can 
enjoy.  But  reading  and  writing  lag  most  ominously. 

But  I  should  not  weary  you  with  complaints.  The  fact 
is,  after  all,  that  I  am  enjoying  myself.  I  am  very  pleas 
antly  fixed  here  —  at  John  A.  Poor's.  Have  his  library 
to  myself  —  see  pleasant  people  —  and  do  very  much  as 
I  please.  I  have  no  sermons  to  write  —  which  is  a  com 
fort  to  me  now.  I  use  the  pencil  not  for  comical  subjects 
or  devils  —  I  am  out  of  that  vein  —  but  in  landscape 
sketching.  One  want  I  feel  here  is  music.  There  is  a  flute 
in  the  house.  And  I  have  seen  a  couple  of  pianos  since  I 
have  been  in  Bangor  —  but  more  unmusical  people  I  have 
seldom  met.  Rupel  has  been  here,  giving  concerts  this 
week.  Mr.  Poor  you  know.  He  spoke  with  enthusiasm  of 
you  and  your  preaching.  He  is  a  clever  man  and  so  is  his 
brother  Henry,  who,  by  the  way,  is  engaged  to  a  sister  of 
Mrs.  Hedge.  I  have  as  pleasant  quarters  here  as  I  could 
find  in  the  city.  I  have  had  lately  some  refreshing  com- 
munings  with  Mr.  Stone  of  Machias,  who  spent  a  few 
days  here  lately.  He  is  a  brother-in-law  of  the  Poors. 
You  remember  his  article  in  the  "Dial"  —  "Man  in  the 
Ages"?  A  freer,  more  childlike,  more  beautiful  mind,  I 
never  met  with.  He  is  fragrant  with  the  very  warmest 
bloom  of  the  true  transcendentalism  —  a  true  Christian 
Pantheist,  a  man  with  a  soul  —  which  is  leading  him  far 
ther  and  farther  away  from  the  prison  house  of  his 
brethren,  the  Philistines.  All  the  best  things  of  Emerson 
and  the  "Dial,"  flowering  and  exhaling  in  spontaneous 
odors  in  his  spirit.  I  see  not  how  he  can  stay  in  his  present 


70      CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 

fetters.  The  man  is  larger  than  the  bed  —  the  unwieldy 
armor  of  Saul's  carcass  fitteth  not  this  spiritual  David.  I 
would  we  had  conversed  more  on  matters  of  faith.  I  saw 
so  much  in  him  that  I  longed  to  see  all  —  were  it  even 
remotely  possible.  .  .  . 

To  John  S.  Dwight 

WASHINGTON,  June  8,  1841. 

.  .  .  One  thing  I  know  of  you  —  and  herein  feel  deeply 
the  contrast  between  us,  viz.,  that  you  have  been  at 
work,  that  you  suffer  no  dark  ennui  or  vacancy,  that  you 
have  a  definite,  daily,  sphere  of  action  and  are  happy  in 
doing  somewhat  at  the  quarry  of  life.  I  have  no  such 
sphere,  no  such  daily  necessity  to  labor,  hardly  even  a 
definite  source  of  action  to  look  forward  to.  The  future, 
like  the  present,  seems  to  me  a  cheerless  blank.  Con 
scious  of  capabilities,  yet  unable  to  choose,  unable  to  de 
cide  what  I  am  to  work  at,  as  first  and  foremost.  Where 
am  I  to  go?  What  am  I  to  do?  Advise  me.  I  feel  called 
back  to  New  England,  and  yet  when  I  get  there,  it  is 
more  than  I  can  say  or  foresee  what  my  vocation  is  to  be. 
I  must  support  myself.  Body,  mind,  soul,  all  need  action. 
Yet  I  see  not  into  the  dark  void  before  me.  At  present  I 
cannot  study  or  write.  I  am  not  well  enough.  I  have  the 
same  old  trouble  in  the  head,  nerves,  and  brain.  Of  this, 
however,  I  hope  to  get  rid  in  time.  Meanwhile  I  cultivate 
the  fine  arts  a  little.  I  spend  a  part  of  every  day  in  draw 
ing,  which  always  makes  the  time  pass  pleasantly.  Of 
late,  I  have  been  a  little  excited  to  aspire  somewhat 
higher.  Some  productions  by  two  young  landscape  paint 
ers  here,  contemporaries  of  mine,  who,  until  of  late,  were 
working  in  quite  different  spheres  from  the  artist's  and 
now  have  "planted  themselves  indomitably  on  their  in 
stincts,"  which  instincts  promise  not  to  betray  and  befool 


PAINTING  71 

them,  have  given  me  a  desire  to  try  the  brush  and  palette. 
I  have  not  done  it  as  yet,  but  I  feel  a  call  that  way.  To 
be  a  landscape  painter,  I  have  often  strongly  desired.  It 
would  be  an  infinite  joy  to  me  to  do  something  in  this 
way.  And  I  think  I  will  try  it.  A  little  instruction  in  col 
oring  is  the  most  that  I  need.  With  this  I  feel  that  I  could 
go  on  alone,  conquering.  I  shall  not,  however,  take  it  up 
as  a  profession.  That  were  too  hazardous  an  experiment. 
I  do  not  look  any  farther  at  present  than  to  begin,  to  be 
seated  before  the  easel,  with  brush  and  palette. 

JUNE  9. 

Another  steaming  day.  There  is  one  pleasant  place  of 
resort  this  warm  weather,  quite  near  me,  and  that  is  the 
Congress  Library.  It  is  getting,  however,  too  public  for  a 
library.  Strangers,  men  and  women,  are  thronging  in  all 
the  time.  I  have  almost  just  returned  from  there,  where 
I  have  been  with  my  sister  looking  over  Flaxman's 
Dante,  Michael  Angelo,  and  a  splendid  collection  of 
mezzotint  engravings  of  Claude.  Did  you  ever  see  these? 
They  are  in  an  English  work,  folio,  3  volumes,  called 
"Liber  Veritatis."  They  are  great.  After  looking  at  them 
I  have  no  taste  for  your  modern  landscapes.  There  is 
such  truth,  yet  such  ideality,  such  simplicity,  yet  such 
richness,  variety  and  effect!  He  has  such  splendid  trees, 
such  graceful  classic  groups,  such  a  delicious  coolness 
about  his  rivers,  and  woods,  and  flocks  and  herds,  and  all 
executed  in  such  masterly  drawing,  and  such  a  rich  brown 
umbre  tint,  I  am  never  weary  of  turning  them  over.  They 
are  just  the  pictures,  those  quiet,  cool,  pastoral  land 
scapes,  to  look  at  this  fiery  summer  weather.  Quite  dif 
ferent  are  other  apartments  in  that  great  Capitol,  from 
this  room. 

Congress  you  know  is  in  session.  I  have  gone  into  the 


72      CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 

Chambers  of  Council,  a  few  times,  but  it  is  so  close  and 
crowded  and  warm;  business  moves  on  there  so  laggingly, 
or  so  uproariously,  that  I  have  little  taste  for  resorting 
there.  .  .  .  J.  Q.  Adams,  as  you  will  see  by  the  papers,  has 
quite  unexpectedly  succeeded  in  getting  the  21st  rule  of 
the  House  rescinded,  that,  namely,  which  rejected  all 
abolition  petitions.  It  is  quite  a  triumph  for  the  North, 
and  more  a  triumph  for  truth  and  freedom,  though  I 
doubt  if  any  immediate  good,  or  any  quite  remote  good, 
can  result  from  it.  The  Southern  members  are  doubtless 
mad  enough  about  it.  ... 

Have  you  sent  any  German  translations  to  Brooks  for 
his  forthcoming  book?  I  sent  two  or  three  trifles.  I  had 
nothing  by  me  and  one  sees  no  German  books  here.  What 
a  totally  different  atmosphere  —  intellectually  and  mor 
ally  —  there  is  here  from  Massachusetts.  You  cannot 
conceive  a  more  external  place  than  this.  ...  I  want  to 
hear  something  about  Boston  matters  —  particularly 
about  Bipley's  farm.  I  may  join  them  yet.  Write  to  me, 
dear  friend,  and  tell  me  what  is  going  on. 

My  father  speaks  of  his  visit  to  his  relatives,  the 
De  Windts,  at  Fishkill-on-the-Hudson :  "In  the 
latter  part  of  August,  I  went  by  invitation  from 
Mrs.  J.  P.  De  Windt  to  Fishkill  to  preach  to  a  very 
small  congregation  and  society,  which  had  been 
for  some  time  in  existence  there.  The  meetings 
were  held  in  a  schoolhouse.  I  was  the  guest  of 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  De  Windt,  in  their  beautiful  home 
on  the  banks  of  the  Hudson,  amid  flowers  and 
trees,  surrounded  by  lovely  scenery,  and  soon  held 
spellbound  by  a  tie  which  has  lasted  all  my  life." 
f  My  mother,  Elizabeth  De  Windt,  was  a  beautiful 
creature.  She  had  regular  features  and  quantities 


.. 


A 

f  ^  /  , 


MRS.   CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 
Pencil  sketch  by  F.  O.  C.  Darley 


PAINTING  73 

of  light-brown,  curly  hair.  Her  head  was  hand 
somely  set  on  her  shoulders,  and  she  carried  herself 
with  grace. 

Tom  Hicks  had  painted  a  portrait  of  her  in  a  sad 
and  pensive  mood,  which  impressed  her  father 
gloomily,  so  he  painted  another.  But  the  first  pic 
ture  was  much  the  better,  and  was  given  to  my 
mother  by  the  artist.  Later,  F.  O.  C.  Darley  said 
to  her,  "Mrs.  Cranch,  your  profile  is  full  of  tender 
ness."  He  dashed  off  a  little  sketch  of  that  profile, 
and  as  it  is  the  most  characteristic  likeness  of  her 
extant,  it  is  much  prized  by  her  daughters.  It  is 
given  here. 

Mrs.  De  Windt  was  a  granddaughter  of  John 
Adams.1  She  brought  the  culture  of  New  England 
into  the  De  Windt  family,  and  often  made  visits  to 
her  uncle,  John  Quincy  Adams,  in  the  old  home  in 
Quincy.  Her  mother  was  the  beautiful  Abigail 
Adams  who  went  to  the  court  of  George  III  when 
John  Adams  was  Minister  to  England,  and  whose 
picture  was  painted  by  Copley  in  pearls  and  pow 
der.  This  was  unfortunately  destroyed  by  fire  in 
the  old  De  Windt  homestead,  but  a  copy  is  in  exis 
tence  with  the  same  beautiful  coloring,  done  con 
amore  by  George  Hall. 

1  John  Adams  Richard  Cranch 

married  married 

Abigail  Smith.  sisters  Mary  Smith. 

Their  daughter  Their  son 

Abigail  Adams  William  Cranch,  the  Judge, 

married  married 

Col.  William  Stephen  Smith.  Ann  (Nancy)  Greenleaf. 

Their  daughter  Their  son 

Caroline  Amelia  Smith  Christopher  Pearse  Cranch 

married  married 

John  Peter  De  Windt.  Elizabeth  De  Windt, 

daughter  of  Caroline  Amelia. 


74      CHRISTOPHER  , .  ~ARSE  CRANCH 

Miss  Elizabeth  De  Windt  was  the  third  daughter 
in  a  large  family.  She  frequently  visited  Quincy 
and  Washington  and  kept  in  touch  with  her  moth 
er's  family. 

To  Miss  Catherine  H.  Myers 

FISHKILL  LANDING,  N.Y.,  October  4,  1841. 
.  .  .  Know  you  that  here  in  the  beautiful  village  of 
Fishkill  Landing  on  the  Hudson,  with  a  most  beautiful 
environment  of  things,  places,  and  persons,  I  have  been 
sojourning  since  the  last  of  August.  A  small  society  is 
established  here,  to  whom  I  have  been  preaching.  But 
the  pleasantest  part  of  it  is  that  I  am  the  inmate  of  a 
delightful  family;  that  is,  not  to  be  enthusiastic,  a  right 
good,  excellent,  kind,  intelligent  family  —  by  name  De 
Windt.  It  is  one  of  the  oldest,  best,  and,  I  believe,  wealth 
iest  families  in  this  vicinity,  consisting  of  Mr.  De  Windt, 
his  wife  and  some  eleven  children.  Their  farm  and  house 
is  directly  on  the  banks  of  the  Hudson,  embosomed  in 
trees,  a  most  lovely,  lovely  spot,  called  Cedar  Grove. 
Mrs.  De  Windt  is  a  relative  of  my  father's.  She  is  the 
granddaughter  of  John  Adams,  and  daughter  of  Colonel 
Smith,  who  was  a  somewhat  distinguished  officer  in  the 
Revolution.  Her  mother  was  Abby  Adams,  the  only 
daughter  of  the  old  President.  Mrs.  De  Windt  has  pub 
lished  a  volume  of  her  mother's  letters  and  correspon 
dence  which  you  may  have  seen.  Now,  you  ask,  what 
have  I  been  doing  —  which  may  be  easily  answered. 
Little  enough  of  anything,  for  I  am  the  laziest  of  men. 
Yet  I  have  been  doing  something,  not  writing  much, 
but  painting,  sketching,  singing,  rambling  in  search  of 
scenery,  —  which  is  abundant  and  of  the  first  order 
here,  for  we  have  river,  mountains,  streams,  and  woods 
around  us,  —  cultivating  some  pleasant  acquaintance, 


PAINTING  75 

and  altogether  enjoying  myself  in  my  old  dreaming 
fashion. 

My  health  is  considerably  better  —  indeed  I  am  a  well 
and  sound  man  to  what  I  was  when  with  you.  So  do  not 
be  anxious  about  me  on  that  score.  I  have  preached 
regularly,  made  visits,  taken  walks,  and  enjoyed  life 
and  nature. 

And  I  may  allow  myself  to  hint  another  thing^,  of 
later  date.  I  cannot  exactly  decide  with  myself  whether 
I  am  actually  in  love,  but  there  is  a  fair  spirit  here  who 
has  breathed  new  life  around  me  of  late.  More  of  her 
I  shall  not  say  just  now  than  this,  and  just  amuse  my 
self  with  hinting  afar  off  the  remote  possibility  of  some 
crisis  occurring  in  your  friend's  life.  Yet  it  may  all  turn 
out  a  dream. 

.  .  .  The  other  day  came  William  H.  Channing  for  an 
hour  or  two  on  his  way  up  the  river  to  see  his  wife.  Day 
before  yesterday  came  Charles  F.  Hoffman  and  spent 
yesterday  with  us,  a  writer  and  poet  of  a  good  deal  of 
merit.  I  found  him  a  highly  agreeable  man,  of  fine  mind 
and  fine  powers  of  conversation.  Over  the  river  there  is 
a  son-in-law  of  Mr.  De  Windt's  —  at  Newburgh,  oppo 
site  Fishkill  —  a  man  of  fine  intellect  and  caste,  whose 
house  and  gardens  are  perfect  gems.  His  name  is  Down 
ing.  He  is  the  author  of  a  work  on  landscape  gardening. 
Then  there  are  beautiful  houses  and  good  collections 
of  pictures  to  be  seen,  and  people  who  seem  to  appre 
ciate  them.  .  .  . 

To  John  S.  Dwight 

FISHKILL  LANDING,  October  16,  1841. 

...  I  am  a  happy  man,  and  you  will  rejoice  with  me 
over  my  good  fortune.  Know  thou  that  not  only  am  I  a 
lover,  but  am  actually  engaged.  A  true  and  lovely  soul, 


76      CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 

incarnated  in  a  lovely  form,  has  crossed  my  orbit  within 
the  last  four  weeks,  in  the  person  of  Miss  Elizabeth  De 
Windt,  daughter  of  John  Peter  De  Windt  of  this  place, 
at  whose  house  I  have  been  residing  since  the  latter  end 
of  August.  Three  weeks'  acquaintance  may  seem  a 
short  prelude  to  a  genuine,  matter-of-fact  engagement, 
but  you  must  know  that  I  have  seen  her  and  been  near 
her  all  the  time,  and  our  attachment  to  one  another 
ripened  fast.  A  few  days  after  I  saw  her  she  became  my 
pupil  in  German,  my  first  pupil,  now  my  companion 
through  life.  Should  not  the  old  Saxon  tongue  wear  now, 
besides  its  former  attractions,  a  new  and  original  bright 
ness?  Is  it  not  associated  with  some  of  the  brightest 
passages  of  my  life?  Good  friend  of  mine,  if  you  would 
win  your  love,  if  you  have  not  won  her,  try  this  order  of 
tactics.  Cannonade  the  proud  citadel  with  right  tough 
Teutonic  words,  watch  her  lips  as  she  reads  and  stum 
bles  over  the  rough  vocables;  insist  upon  her  sounding 
the  ch  right  and  all  the  other  hard  pronunciations.  .  .  . 
Then,  how  has  beautiful  Nature  befriended  me!  what 
beautiful  moonlight  rambles,  and  piazza  promenades, 
and  rides;  also  music,  and  drawing!  Surely  all  good 
angels  officiated  in  bringing  the  happy  result  about.  I 
would  describe  her  to  you,  but  don't  feel  analytic  —  yet 
may  give  a  few  random  strokes.  For  her  mind,  she  is 
not  a  genius,  but  has  talent,  good  sound  sense,  and  can 
appreciate  the  higher  sorts  of  minds.  For  her  soul  and 
heart,  they  are  of  the  finest  make,  warranted  sound  and 
pure  and  noble,  she  is  eminently  "a  girl  of  truth,  of 
golden  truth,"  for  her  heart  in  all  its  purity  and  devotion 
has  she  given  to  me.  And  last  —  for  her  person  —  not  so 
faultlessly  beautiful  as  your  young  flower  of  Northamp 
ton,  but  yet  very  fair,  tall,  very  tall,  regular  features, 
lightish  hair,  soft  blue  eyes,  and  the  loveliest  mouth  and 


PAINTING  77 

smile  —  and  so  on  —  and  so  on.  I  care  not  to  describe, 
when  I  love  so  well. 

And  now  for  the  dull  necessities  of  the  world.  I  must 
look  about  in  earnest  for  a  living.  I  have  thought  and 
thought  and  thought,  and  am  now  pretty  much  deter 
mined,  spite  of  all  my  objections,  to  stick  a  while  longer 
at  the  candidatory  trade.  I  am  sick  of  it,  and  pining  for 
freedom  and  self-repose,  but  there  is  a  good  side  to  the 
profession  after  all,  and  I  must  be  married.  I  may  not 
always  be  a  minister,  exclusively  a  minister,  but  at  pres 
ent  I  see  no  other  way  open.  How  are  the  vacancies 
in  New  England?  Write  me  what  you  know  about  it. 
I  shall  probably  be  looking  that  way  ere  long.  I  shall  be 
here,  however,  perhaps  a  few  months  longer,  after  a  short 
visit  South.  The  country  is  magnificent  for  scenery.  It 
is  perpetual  enjoyment  to  me  to  see.  I  have  painted  con 
siderably,  little  things,  and  carry  my  colors  and  palette 
with  me.  I  need  instruction,  but  improve,  nevertheless. 

To  Miss  Julia  Myers 

FISHKILL  LANDING,  N.Y.,  April  11,  1842. 

...  I  can  hardly  tell  you  in  the  compass  of  a  letter 
all  that  I  have  been  seeing,  hearing,  thinking,  and  doing 
since  I  last  wrote  you.  I  have  been  for  the  most  part  in 
Boston,  that  little  world,  that  vortex  of  life,  that  spot  of 
all  others  in  the  country  where  life  in  all  its  various  as 
pects  is  so  concentrated  and  distilled,  that  city  of  bright 
intellects,  warm  hearts,  fair  faces,  sweet  music,  parties, 
concerts,  lectures,  churches,  schools,  —  an  olla  podrida 
of  everything  to  be  thought  of  and  done.  .  .  . 

Of  the  many  aesthetic  banquets  at  which  I  have  re 
galed,  I  will  here  speak  of  one  of  the  most  savory  and 
satisfactory,  that  is  the  concerts.  The  music  of  Harmony 
certainly  seems  to  have  descended  this  past  winter  upon 


78      CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 

the  capital  of  Yankee  land.  No  longer  speaketh  the 
divine  guest  through  pumpkin  stalks  and  base  fiddles 
and  spinnets  and  fifes  and  drums  and  Jew's-harps,  but 
through  the  sweetest  tones  of  the  violin,  violoncello, 
oboe,  guitar,  and  organ;  and  through  the  richest  of 
singers  of  both  sexes,  and  the  sublimest  of  choral  and 
orchestral  harmony. 

There  is  one  instrument,  which  in  the  hands  of  the 
master  whose  performances  upon  it  I  have  repeatedly 
listened  to,  has  been  like  a  new  revelation  in  music  to  me. 
It  is  the  violoncello.  Did  you  ever  hear  it?  But  even  if 
you  have,  and  in  the  hands  of  the  best  amateur,  you 
can  have  no  idea,  nor  can  I  give  you  any,  of  its  wonder 
ful  power  when  touched  by  Knoop,  said  to  be  the  great 
est  artist  on  this  instrument  in  Germany.  If  you  would 
hear  the  very  soul  tell  all  its  deepest,  most  inner  feelings, 
if  you  would  listen  to  language  as  from  another  world 
and  from  some  matured  spirit  in  a  more  exalted  and  per 
fect  state  than  here  below,  go  to  hear  Knoop.  You  will 
feel  as  if  he  were  drawing  out  of  you  your  very  soul.  I 
will  transcribe  a  part  of  what  I  wrote  down  on  first  hear 
ing  him. 

O  the  power  of  expression  it  has!  Those  high,  flute- 
like  harmonic  notes,  vanishing  off  and  off  like  some  bird 
you  watch  in  the  blue  sky,  till  it  recedes  forever  from 
you :  —  those  deep  wailings  of  grief,  where  the  rich  bass 
of  the  man's  voice  and  the  softer  complainings  of  woman 
so  wonderfully  blend  with  and  succeed  each  other,  — 
those  bursts  and  growls  of  passion  from  the  lower  strings, 
the  tenderness  and  depth  of  all  its  tones,  make  it  to  me 
the  most  expressive  of  all  instruments.  It  seems  to  have 
all  the  force  and  expressiveness  of  the  violin,  without  any 
of  its  obtrusive  harshness,  and  besides  this,  the  glorious 
bass,  which  the  violin  wants.  It  is  the  violin  matured 


PAINTING  79 

and  mellowed,  the  perfect  man  of  stringed  instruments. 
How  eloquently  it  seems  to  talk  and  discourse  to  us,  how 
persuasive,  how  dignified,  how  careless  and  unconscious 
it  appears  of  its  own  commanding  power!  It  is  Adam 
conversing  with  his  spouse  —  man  and  woman,  wisdom 
and  love  blended. 

.  .  .  My  friend  Dwight  has  been  delivering  a  great 
course  of  lectures  on  the  musical  composers,  but  to  very 
small  audiences.  The  people  are  hardly  prepared  to  en 
ter  into  those  moods  from  which  his  lofty  strains  flow. 
Music  is  a  different  thing  to  him  from  what  it  is  to  any 
body  I  ever  knew;  therefore  he  is  a  mystic  to  those  whose 
natures  do  not  lead  them  into  the  same  feelings  and 
ideas.  .  .  . 

To  John  S.  Dwight 

BURLINGTON,  VERMONT,  May  25,  1842. 

I  am  determined  not  to  give  up  preaching  unless  com 
pelled  to  by  health,  and  by  want  of  sympathy  and  en 
couragement  from  without.  I  like  my  profession  in  many 
respects,  and  have  grown  accustomed  to  it.  I  should 
never  get  my  bread  in  any  other  way;  and  I  know  not 
if,  upon  the  whole,  any  other  sphere  of  life  would  bring 
me  any  more  inward  peace  and  satisfaction,  than  this. 
I  am  resolved,  therefore,  to  submit  as  far  as  I  can  do  so 
without  compromising  my  views  and  feelings,  to  such 
usages  and  forms  as  the  profession  ordinarily  carries 
with  it,  and  wait  for  things  to  grow  better  and  more 
rational. 

I  have  rather  pleasant  quarters  here  in  the  Pearl 
Street  house.  The  people  of  the  society  are  friendly  and 
sociable,  with  some  degree  of  refinement  and  cultiva 
tion.  I  miss  the  delights  of  music.  There  are  some  pianos 
in  town,  but  none  at  the  house  where  I  am.  I  hanker  and 


80     CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 

thirst  for  a  piano,  the  want  of  which  excitement  I  make  up 
for,  as  well  as  I  am  able,  by  playing  through  "Norma" 
on  my  flute,  and  by  smoking  cigars.  I  have  written  a 
little  rhyme,  and  two  sermons  —  I  also  sketch  a  little, 
and  go  out  after  wild  flowers;  but  spring  with  her  glories 
seems  but  a  slow  and  reluctant  visitor  to  this  northern 
clime. 

To  Edward  P.  Cranch 

FISHKILL  LANDING,  N.Y.,  May  30,  1843. 
...  I  thank  you  for  all  your  sympathy  and  counsel, 
as  to  the  vague  future  before  me,  and  the  blank  pres 
ent,  which  this  transition  state  is  the  natural  cause  of. 
\  Preaching  I  have  about  done  with.  What  little  I  have 
lately  done,  has  not  been  through  choice,  so  much  as 
necessity,  and  for  love.  I  feel  ambitious  of  entering  life 
as  a  whole  man  —  an  individual  man;  and  if  possible,  of 
working  and  earning  money  in  some  way  suited  to  my 
tastes.  But  at  present  I  do  not  stand  even  on  the  thres 
hold  of  this  new  life.  Something  I  must  do,  however, 
and  soon.  Three  ways  present  themselves  to  me,  and  I 
do  not  know  why  I  may  not  endeavor  to  unite  them  all! 
(1)  Make  illustrations;  of  this  I  have  spoken.  There  is  a 
good  field  for  this  work  in  the  city  of  New  York,  and  I 
shall  make  inquiries  there  about  it.  I  could  easily  learn 
to  draw  on  wood,  or  even  perhaps  to  etch.  This,  however, 
we  waive  for  the  present.  (2)  Landscape  painting.  I 
want  to  make  the  experiment  at  least,  and  see  if  I  can't 
paint  something  that  will  sell.  I  have  many  friends,  who 
may  perhaps  help  me.  I  took  a  few  lessons  in  Boston 
of  John  Greenough  which  helped  me  a  good  deal.  And 
with  a  little  more  practice  and  a  few  more  hints  from 
painters,  I  should  get  on,  I  think,  quite  fast.  (3)  Author. 
I  am  writing  for  magazines  which  will  give  me  a  little. 


A 


CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE   CRAXCH 
Pencil  sketch  by  William  Wetmore  Story 


PAINTING  81 

I  shall  publish  a  small  volume  of  poems  before  the 
winter,  which,  though  it  may  pay  me  nothing,  will 
get  my  name  up,  and  insure  me  better  pay  with  the 
magazines. 

I  think  of  going  to  New  York  to  live,  —  at  least  for 
the  present,  —  and  look  out  there  for  something  to  do. 
...  I  should  live  in  New  York  as  economically  as  pos 
sible,  and  as  independently  as  a  Bedouin  chief.  There 
is  no  place  in  the  United  States  like  New  York  for  indi 
vidual  living.  I  shall  miss  Boston  society,  and  the  friends 
I  saw  there,  but  then,  I  shall  be  near  my  Cara  Lisa, 
and  the  Highlands.  .  .  . 

So  far  from  my  lady  love's  thinking  it  a  descent  from 
pulpitdom  to  any  otherdom,  she  rejoices  infinitely  over 
the  chance,  and  would  indeed  have  me  be  anything  but 
a  minister.  She  is  content  with  any  sphere  of  life  which 
would  allow  us  a  support.  We  have  even  talked  of  join 
ing  Ripley's  community  at  Roxbury,  and  the  suggestion 
came  from  her.  She  has  a  truly  independent  and  ener 
getic  soul.  .  .  .  She  wants  me  to  devote  myself  to  land 
scape  painting  and  illustrations;  also  to  authorship.  But 
her  own  taste  in  painting  encourages  me  particularly 
towards  that  path.  Next  week  I  shall  probably  be  in 
New  York,  where  I  can  feel  about  me  more  tangibly.  I 
feel  as  if  there  must  be  something  for  me  to  do  there;  from 
which  dollars  and  cents  shall  flow  forth  for  the  refresh 
ing  of  my  soul.  Believe  me  that  your  wholesome  doc 
trine  therefore  begins  to  assume  a  deeper  significance  to 
my  soul.  Henceforth  I  devote  myself  to  money-making, 
"remuneration"!  I  repeat  over  to  myself  with  Costard 
the  clown;  "Guerdon,  O  sweet  Guerdon!  Be  thou  be 
fore  me  night  and  day,  till  I  can  command  where  now 
I  stand  and  beg."  .  .  . 


82      CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 

To  John  S.  Dwight 

August  13,  1843. 

...  Is  the  world  all  occupied,  that  you  and  I  cannot 
find  a  single  corner  to  stand  in  and  eat  our  bread  and 
cheese?  Must  we  be  "of  the  chameleon's  dish  and  eat 
the  air,  promise-crammed"?  But  your  lot  is  a  harder  one 
than  mine,  for  you  have  less  in  common  with  the  ways 
and  tastes  of  the  many  than  I.  You  stand  upon  a  loftier 
summit,  and  feed  on  purer  nectar,  and  more  divine  am 
brosia,  and  the  world  acknowledges  none  such  as  useful. 
They  lend  no  money's  worth  to  the  markets,  and  then 
"on  their  hermit's  rock,  on  their  divine  mountain  sum 
mits,  let  them  starve!"  says  the  thick-skulled,  filmy- 
eyed  world.  Yet,  my  friend,  I  am  in  the  hope  you  will 
one  day  be  not  without  your  reward,  even  in  hard 
specie.  Only  produce,  produce,  hide  not  your  light  un 
der  a  bushel,  but  let  it  blaze  forth,  wherever  there  is  an 
eye  to  appreciate  it,  for  it  is  a  rare  genius  you  are  en 
dowed  with,  and  you  should  not  hide  it  like  the  Rosi- 
crucians,  nor  dream  it  away  in  the  fields,  but  bear  it  like 
a  torch  into  the  very  thickest  of  the  multitude,  and  make 
them  acknowledge  and  honor  you. 

I  am  becoming  more  and  more  a  student  of  nature 
and  only  regret  that  heretofore  I  have  made  so  little  use 
of  the  opportunities,  I  have  had,  when  among  scenes 
of  great  natural  beauty.  As  yet  I  do  not  expect  much 
profit  from  painting,  pecuniarily.  The  parson  as  you 
conjecture  is  pretty  nigh  obsolete.  I  have  preached  one 
sermon  only  for  Bulfinch,  as  he  needed  help.  But  I  am 
)  fairly  rid  of  all  parishes  and  all  the  bores  and  petty 
hopes  and  fears  which  young  ministers  are  heir  to,  and 
am  a  free  and  independent  man,  thank  Heaven!  My 
only  regret  is  now  that  I  did  not  cut  through  this  tangled 
skein  long  ago. 


MARRIAGE  83 

Though  all  is  uncertain  before  me  in  this,  my  newly 
chosen  profession,  yet  welcome  poverty,  I  say,  if  it  wears 
such  a  jewel  as  this  —  if  I  can  so  brighten  my  days  with 
the  delights  and  fascinations  of  an  artist's  life.  I  have 
now  no  ennui,  no  grief,  no  anxiety,  no  pain,  no  languor, 
which  I  cannot  drown  in  this  flood  of  beauty  which  pours 
around  me,  and  which  bears  me  buoyantly  and  in  festal 
pomp  and  strength  upon  its  bosom.  While  I  can  trans 
fer,  even  so  imperfectly,  sweet  nature  to  my  canvas,  or 
trace  the  ideal  nature  beneath  this  outward  life,  I  live 
in  perpetual  creation.  I  am  in  a  world  of  my  own,  and 
nothing  can  pain  me.  After  all  what  atmosphere  is  com 
parable  to  that  of  the  studio?  Here  in  this  quiet,  subdued, 
mellow  light,  the  harsh  world  is  shut  out,  and  approached 
only  when  duty  and  common  everyday  interests  sum 
mon  us  to  action,  which  only  prepares  us  for  the  next 
day's  absorbing  labor,  at  the  end  of  which  we  only  find 
ourselves  weary  without  knowing  why.  And,  is  not  the 
artist,  too,  working  for  truth  and  goodness  as  well  as 
beauty?  Is  he  not  doing  the  world  a  great  benefit  when 
he  thus  sows  flowers  along  its  sandy  tracts,  and  festoons 
its  desolate  places  with  beauty?  I  have  an  inward  feel 
ing  that  my  time  is  not  misspent,  though  I  may  never 
attain  to  eminence.  If  I  can  in  the  remotest  degree,  by 
my  labors,  bring  thoughts  of  nature  and  dreams  of  para 
dise  into  a  single  soul,  I  have  done  some  good,  I  have 
spoken  some  truth. 

To  Edward  P.  Cranch 

WASHINGTON,  October  18,  1843. 

The  great  event  of  my  life,  I  am  happy  to  inform  you, 
has  at  length  taken  place,  and  all  things  therewith  con 
nected  and  associated  have  up  to  the  present  hour 
proved  auspicious  and  happy,  even  the  weather  .... 


84      CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 

The  wedding  took  place  at  half-past  eight  on  Tuesday 
evening  the  10th,  precisely  two  years  from  the  day  of  our 
engagement.  Dr.  Dewey  officiated.  Charles  F.  Hoffman, 
of  New  York,  was  my  groomsman,  and  Isabel,  Lizzie's 
sister,  bridesmaid.  The  bride  was  dressed  in  white  muslin, 
her  hair  curled  and  adorned  with  beautiful  white  flowers, 
and  looked  very  lovely.  There  were  twenty  or  thirty  per 
sons  present,  the  greater  part  relatives  of  the  family.  A 
supper  and  a  big  wedding  cake  concluded  the  evening.  At 
ten  o'clock  on  Wednesday  we  were  off,  making  a  call  at 
Mr.  Downing's  in  Newburgh  on  our  way.  —  And  here 
we  are  safely  at  home,  where  already  has  commenced 
the  routine  of  visits  of  ceremony  to  the  new  married 
pair.  We  only  want  you  and  Abby  here  to  make  every 
thing  complete.  It  is  really  provoking  that  you  should 
have  been  here  so  recently  and  were  obliged  to  return 
without  seeing  your  sister-in-law.  But  I  hope  it  may  not 
be  long  before  you  will  see  her. 

We  shall  remain  about  a  fortnight,  and  then  return  to 
New  York,  where  we  shall  get  established  in  our  house  in 
Lexington  Avenue,  near  Twenty-second  Street,1  in  the 
course  of  next  month.  ...  If  I  can  contrive  it  I  shall 
have  my  painting  room  in  the  house,  where  I  expect  to 
be  very  industrious  the  coming  winter. 

To  John  S.  Dwight 

NEW  YORK,  December  6,  1843. 

I  scarcely  yet  realize  the  change  I  have  gone  through. 
From  a  lonesome  loafer  of  a  poor  bachelor  to  a  proud  and 

1  Of  this  house  he  says  in  a  later  letter  to  his  brother:  "It  is  nearly 
in  the  suburbs  and  three  miles  from  the  Battery,  but  omnibuses  are 
passing  us  all  the  time,  and  you  can  go  the  whole  distance  down  for 
C  J  cents.  I  have  become  used  to  New  York  distances.  Sister  Lizzie 
lives  about  a  mile  from  us,  but  we  consider  it  quite  in  our  neighbor 
hood." 


MARRIAGE  85 

happy  bridegroom,  from  a  careless,  independent,  irrespon 
sible,  improvident  dreamer,  to  an  anxious,  dutiful,  active, 
practical,  prudent  manager  and  head  of  a  family,  living 
in  a  three-story  house,  my  name  publicly  blazoned  on 
the  front  door,  and  ten  grown  people  and  a  wife  to  look 
after  every  day  —  a  man  that  counteth  the  dollars  and 
cents,  keepeth  accounts,  maketh  bargains,  taketh  the 
daily  paper  and  saith  to  his  servants  in  the  kitchen  — 
"do  this  —  and  they  do  it";  one  that  looketh  before 
rather  than  after,  and  feels  that  life  is  earnest,  and  the 
Ideal  —  alas!  less  for  a  season  than  the  Actual.  One, 
that  f eeleth  after,  with  sorrowful  surprise,  the  limitations, 
which  press  on  all  sides,  whenever  he  compareth  the 
Fact  with  the  Idea,  —  here  is  signified  a  change  which 
is  not  small.  Not  that  I  would  dwell  more  on  the  cares 
of  married  life  than  its  delights,  for  both  have  their 
emphasis. 

It  is  a  great  step  to  have  taken.  But  I  see,  I  think,  the 
leading  hand  of  Providence  in  it.  It  is  singular  that  I 
should  have  been  married  just  at  a  time  when  I  have 
no  profession,  no  resources,  nothing  certain  to  look  for 
ward  to  as  a  support.  We  take  a  house  at  three  hundred 
dollars  rent  for  the  first  year  (it  will  undoubtedly  be 
raised  the  second  year) ,  move  into  it,  with  nothing  given 
us  but  our  furniture  and  some  occasional  presents  from 
my  father-in-law,  and  depend  for  our  daily  subsistence 
on  a  few  boarders.  Somehow  we  get  along  very  com 
fortably.  Our  boarders  are  not  strangers,  but  friends. 
We  have  a  house  full,  and  make  quite  a  pleasant  little 
circle.  Doubtless  it  were  far  pleasanter  to  have  a  home 
consecrated  to  no  divinities  but  Hymen  and  the  Muses, 
but  there  would  be  after  all  a  sort  of  refined  selfishness 
in  this,  which  might  punish  itself  in  monotony  and  ennui. 
On  the  whole,  I  quite  like  to  have  my  house  full,  pro- 


86      CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 

vided  the  inmates  are  to  our  taste.  I  have  a  little  room, 
just  big  enough  to  turn  around  in,  where  I  paint  and 
write.  Of  the  first,  I  have  done  little  lately,  of  the  second, 
nothing;  but  as  I  become  more  settled,  I  hope  to  be  more 
industrious.  You  compliment  altogether  too  highly  my 
letter  in  which  I  spoke  of  turning  artist.  I  fear  I  shall 
utterly  disappoint  my  friends,  on  this  score.  Besides, 
I  fear  I  am  but  a  half -blooded  artist  after  all.  There  are 
still  sidelong  glances  at  my  old  profession.  You  will  be 
surprised,  perhaps,  to  learn  that  I  have  occasionally 
preached,  and  still  shall  do  so,  when  the  inward  and  the 
outward  calls  agree.  But  I  do  so  with  perfect  freedom, 
preaching  whatever  I  please,  with  none  to  make  me 
afraid.  When  I  do  not  preach,  I  hear  William  H.  Chan- 
ning.  I  regret  every  chance  I  miss  of  hearing  him.  I 
could  write  you  a  great  deal  about  him,  had  I  room  and 
time.  He  is  a  wonderful  speaker,  and  it  is  perfectly  as 
tonishing  that  he  is  not  more  appreciated  here.  I  never 
have  seen  such  purely  intense  inspiration  in  any  speaker. 
You  must  come  on  and  hear  him  with  me.  Besides,  I 
want  to  see  you  and  talk  with  you  about  sundry  matters. 
I  heard  of  your  plan  you  had  in  consideration  of  going 
to  Europe,  and  am  glad  you  did  not  go,  though  the 
temptation  must  have  been  strong.  You  are  living,  too, 
in  a  musical  atmosphere.  I  hear  no  music.  Ole  Bull  is 
great,  no  doubt,  and  Castillan,  and  Vieuxtemps,  and 
others,  but  I  fear  I  must  deny  myself  these  luxuries.  I 
must,  however,  see  Macready.  Do  come  on  and  see  me. 
I  have  a  spare  room  for  you,  and  room  at  the  table,  and 
a  chair  for  you  by  the  fire,  and  a  warm  welcome  to  all  I 
can  give  you. 

Of  the  Reverend  William  Henry  Channing,  Mr. 
Cranch  wrote  more  than  forty  years  later:  — 


MARRIAGE  87 

My  first  acquaintance  with  him  was  in  the  Divinity 
School  in  1833.  But  I  cannot  say  that  I  knew  him  well 
till  somewhere  about  the  year  1839,  when  he  was  in 
Cincinnati.  How  long  he  was  settled  there  I  forget.  I 
afterwards  knew  him  better  in  New  York,  I  think  in 
1844-45,  where  he  preached  several  years,  in  a  hall  to  a 
small  congregation  of  "  Come-outers "  and  where  my 
wife  and  I  regularly  attended.  He  seemed  to  me  then 
one  of  the  most  fervent  and  eloquent  of  preachers;  all 
the  other  preaching  in  New  York  was  tame  in  compari 
son.  His  themes  were  mostly  in  the  line  of  social  reform. 
He  always  took  an  intense  interest  in  the  spiritual  eleva 
tion  of  the  people,  but  no  less  in  establishing  a  high 
standard  of  morality  for  the  cultured  classes.  He  was 
an  uncompromising  opponent  of  the  encroachments  of 
Slavery  upon  the  country,  and  his  sermons  against  the 
Mexican  War  and  the  annexation  of  Texas  were  very 
powerful.  It  is  difficult  to  describe  a  man  who  seemed 
so  perfect.  He  would  have  appeared  like  one  of  the 
saints  of  the  old  time,  had  not  his  keen,  cultivated,  but 
restless  intellect,  and  his  broad,  liberal  tendencies  allied 
him  to  all  the  nearest  and  most  practical  interests  of  life. 
He  united  in  his  nature,  the  ideal  philosopher,  poet,  and 
preacher.  He  was  keenly  alive  to  everything  true,  good, 
and  beautiful.  He  held  an  ideal  standard  in  everything. 
His  tenderness,  his  enthusiasm,  were  almost  feminine, 
and  though  his  emotional  nature  seemed  the  main  spring 
of  his  life,  he  had  a  wonderful  strength,  balance,  and 
self-discipline.  He  seemed  to  live  habitually  in  an  upper 
region  of  thought  and  feeling.  He  had  a  limpid  purity 
and  a  lofty  standard  which  almost  set  him  outside  the 
pale  of  intimate  fellowship.  .  .  .  He  was  always  cheerful, 
always  hopeful  —  a  genuine  optimist.  .  .  .  He  was  never 
idle,  never  off  his  track.  His  temperament  seemed  to  yield 


88     CHRISTOPHER  PEARCE  CRANCH 

him  no  easy  cushion  on  which  his  nervous  intellect  and 
his  keen  conscience  could  repose. 

But  I  can  only  imperfectly  give  the  impression  he 
made  upon  me,  at  that  time.  .  .  .  Since  those  early  days 
I  have  seen  almost  nothing  of  him.  I  do  not  think  he 
ever  in  the  least  declined  to  a  lower  range  in  his  ideal 
standard,  or  in  his  daily  life. 

To  John  S.  Dwight 

NEW  YORK,  April  8,  1844. 

.  .  .  I  see  you  are  thoroughly  immersed  in  Fourier, 
and  hear  of  you  as  established  at  Brook  Farm.  You  have 
got  the  start  on  me  altogether  in  this  reform,  theoreti 
cally  and  practically,  for  as  yet  I  am  but  a  humble  and 
very  ignorant  inquirer,  standing  hardly  on  the  thresh 
old  of  Phalanstery,  an  imperfect  note  in  the  great  har 
mony  you  and  others  are  aspiring  towards;  an  instru 
ment,  weak,  dull,  ineffective,  discordant,  out  of  tune  in 
the  grand  symphony,  your  great  Panharmonic  Orches 
tra  are  about  to  perform.  But  I  hope  that  I  shall  tune 
up  my  fiddle  by  degrees,  and  learn  to  keep  time  and 
tune  with  my  brothers.  I  have  long  been  looking  to 
something  better  than  I  can  arrive  at,  under  our  present 
socia]  organization.  ...  It  is  getting  to  be  more  and 
more  :  he  great  vital  question,  the  heaviest  pressure  upon 
my  thoughts,  the  gloomiest  shades  around  my  heart, 
this  natter  of  Social  Reform,  and  I  wish  now  more  than 
all  things  else,  in  my  higher  moments,  to  study  the  sys 
tem  of  Fourier,  of  which,  I  am  ashamed  to  say,  I,  at 
present,  know  so  little.  Channing  has  been  a  great  light 
to  me  here,  as  well  as  to  many  others.  I  have  no  words 
which  would  adequately  express  what  I  owe  to  him,  as 
prophet,  thinker,  eloquent  speaker,  pure  and  heaven- 
gifted  spirit.  But  I  must  do  more  than  receive.  I  must 


MARRIAGE  89 

also  give  out  and  create.  May  heaven  only  help  me  to 
be  true  to  myself.  I  should  study  and  write  more  were 
it  not  that  I  have  so  earnestly  taken  hold  of  the  brushes 
and  palette.  This,  as  you  know,  is  now  "  my  vocation, 
Hal."  I  have  taken  it  up  with  the  intention  of  succeed 
ing  in  my  limited  sphere,  as  a  painter  of  landscapes.  To 
be  sure,  as  yet  it  puts  no  money  into  my  pockets,  but 
it  is  to  me  a  perpetual  spiritual  joy  and  satisfaction. 
It  is  its  own  reward.  Besides  I  have  some  hopes  that  in 
a  year  or  two  it  may  bring  something  to  me  in  the  way 
of  vulgar  dollars  and  cents,  which  I  by  no  means  affect 
to  despise.  I  have  improved  considerably  since  the  mis 
erable  daubs  you  saw  in  the  garret  of  the  old  United 
States  Hotel,  Boston.  I  shall  send  three  pieces  to  the 
Exhibition  of  the  Academy  this  spring. 

I  shall  also  exhibit  in  a  few  days  another  work,  in  an 
other  and  kindred  line,  viz.,  a  small  volume  of  Poems 
from  the  press  of  Carey  and  Hart,  in  Philadelphia.  It 
has  been  delayed  somewhat,  and  should  have  been  out 
some  weeks  since.  My  publisher  insists  upon  limiting 
me  to  112  pages  which  I  fear  will  not  contain  me.  Be 
sides  this,  I  wish  I  had  given  vent  in  a  few  more  poems 
to  some  of  my  later  and  riper  thoughts.  These  poems 
seem  hardly  to  do  justice  to  what  I  might  say  and  sing 
now,  but  are  of  the  past,  in  a  great  degree. 

To  John  S.  Dwight 

NEW  YORK,  November  30,  1845. 

...  I  was  glad  to  see  your  criticism  on  the  virtuoso 
school,  and  your  last  word  about  Leopold  de  Meyer. 
Such  views  are  much  needed  among  us,  when  there  is 
so  little  soundness  of  faith.  What  you  say  of  Ole  Bull 
I  think  is  perfectly  just,  neither  too  little  nor  too  much. 
Mrs.  Child,  however,  is  angry  with  you  because  you  do 


90      CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 

not  make  him  the  god  he  is  to  her,  but  assign  him  his 
proper  niche  and  pedestal.  But  she  is  one  who  sees 
everything  in  the  prismy  hues  of  feeling;  with  her  mind 
there  is  but  little  of  the  pure  white  light  of  philosophic 
judgment.  How  can  she  then  consent,  that  this  subject 
of  her  highest  enthusiasm  should  be  called  one  who 
"moves  in  the  sphere  of  virtuosodom"?  To  her  he  is  the 
top  of  the  world :  the  rarest  perfume  of  all  genius.  No  one 
denies  that  in  his  sphere  he  is  truly  great.  I  have  never 
heard  anything  to  compare  with  the  depth  and  purity 
and  passion  of  his  tones.  Then  what  grace,  what  power, 
what  finish  of  execution!  But  what  are  his  compositions 
beside  the  master  composers?  Even  Vieuxtemps  far  ex 
cels  him  here,  it  seemed  to  me.  Write  me  what  you  think 
of  the  Norwegian  minstrel,  more  at  large.  There  is  such 
a  nimbus  of  light  around  him  at  present,  that  few  per 
sons  are  clear-sighted  enough  to  speak  moderately  of 
him. 

December  7. 

I  wrote  thus  far  a  week  ago,  but  my  unfinished  sheet 
has  been  lying  perdu.  I  could  not  send  it  as  it  was,  be 
cause  I  had  a  few  words  to  add  to  what  I  have  said  about 
Ole  Bull.  The  fact  is  I  was  in  company  with  him  at 
Mrs.  Child's  the  very  evening  of  the  day  I  had  been  so 
coolly  writing  about  him,  and  the  deep  impression  the 
man  made  upon  me  was  hardly  in  harmony  with  the 
very  moderate  tone  in  which  I  had  been  speaking  of  his 
music.  .  .  .  He  is  the  most  delightful  person  I  almost 
ever  met.  He  attracted  me  at  once.  We  now  saw  what 
we  could  not  see  in  a  concert  room,  from  the  distance  we 
were,  and  hear  him  speak  only  in  his  music.  This  seems 
only  a  part  of  him.  We  could  now  observe  the  beauty 
of  his  countenance  with  its  varied  expression,  his  soft 


MARRIAGE  91 

eyes  beaming  with  genius  and  his  whole  heart  shining 
through  them  with  such  tenderness,  such  open  truth 
and  friendliness,  a  sweet  smile.  His  strong  electric  mo 
tions  are  rounded  in  by  an  almost  feminine  grace  and 
gentleness;  his  perfect  harmony  of  organization,  bodily 
and  mental;  his  healthy  self-abandoned  unconsciousness, 
so  much  better  than  the  conscious  self-possession  of 
many  —  in  fine  his  graceful  and  cordial  manners :  all 
these  combine  to  make  him  exceedingly  interesting. 

We  soon  had  him  seated  at  the  piano,  where  he  sat  at 
least  an  hour,  singing  wild  Norwegian  airs,  and  passages 
from  "Don  Giovanni."  He  says  he  plays  only  by  ear, 
but  he  seems  perfectly  at  home  in  all  chords  and  modu 
lations,  as  if  he  knew  the  instrument  intuitively.  His 
voice  is  agreeable,  and  very  expressive.  Among  other 
things,  he  sang  and  played  part  of  his  fine  Concerto  in 
E  minor,  his  voice  taking  the  violin  part  and  his  fingers 
the  orchestral.  He  also  told  me  anecdotes  of  Norway, 
its  mountain  scenery,  its  music  and  dances;  its  houses 
and  peasantry,  with  most  dramatic  spirit. 

I  parted  from  him  with  deep  regret,  for  it  was  the  first 
and  last  time  I  met  him  in  society. 

To  Edward  P.  Cranch 

FISHKILL  LANDING,  N.Y.,  July  26,  1846. 

I  must  write  you  once  more  before  sailing;  even  though 
it  be  a  short  letter.  All  is  arranged  for  our  departure  on  ! 
the  first  of  August,  on  the  packet  ship  Nebraska  via  Mar 
seilles.  Our  friend  George  William  Curtis  goes  with  us. 
The  ship  is  a  fine  one,  new,  having  made  but  two  voy 
ages,  and  the  Captain  —  who  is  a  very  nice  man  —  says 
we  shall  make  the  voyage  in  thirty- two  days. 

I  wrote  you  from  Washington  on  the  receipt  of  your 
letter  about  Italy.  I  hope  you  received  my  letter.  In  it, 


92      CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 

I  presented  the  matter  in  a  light,  different  from  that  in 
which  you  viewed  it.  And  I  hope  now  that  you  agree 
with  me,  that  it  is  not  so  mistaken  an  idea  we  are  carry 
ing  into  effect.  .  .  . 

My  views  about  landscape  painting  are  and  will  be 
unchanged,  wherever  I  am.  Nature  and  nothing  but 
nature  shall  be  my  guide.  The  book  you  spoke  of  called 
"Modern  Landscape  Painters,"  by  a  graduate  of  Ox 
ford,  I  have  been  reading  with  great  pleasure,  and  gen 
eral  approval.  I  shall  now  in  some  measure  be  able  to 
judge  for  myself  whether  he  is  right.  I  cannot  yet  real 
ize  that  I  am  so  soon  to  leave  the  country,  and  for  a 
month  or  more  to  be  tossed  on  the  sea;  then  to  land  in  a 
strange  clime.  How  exciting  is  the  prospect  of  a  first  sea 
voyage!  Heaven  grant  us  a  safe  passage!  We  have 
every  reason  to  anticipate  one.  It  is  hard  indeed  to  part 
with  our  friends,  but  the  worst  part,  to  me,  is  over,  since 
we  left  Washington.  You  and  John  and  Abby,  I  should 
scarcely  see  even  if  I  remained,  for  separation  seems  our 
destiny,  whether  parted  by  mountains  or  by  seas.  Let  us 
all  pray  for  a  happy  meeting,  in  a  year  or  two  at  least. 
God  bless  you,  dear  brother,  and  grant  you  every  happi 
ness  and  success. 


CHAPTER  VI 

FIRST   VISIT   TO   EUROPE THE   VOYAGE  —  ROME 

WE  come  now  to  a  very  interesting  period  in  my 
father's  life,  —  his  first  experiences  at  sea,  with  my 
mother  and  his  friend,  George  William  Curtis;  and 
the  opening  of  that  life  of  romance  and  of  art,  so 
fascinating  to  one  of  his  temperament.  It  was  a  slow 
voyage  of  nearly  seven  weeks'  duration;  but  one  of 
great  charm  to  these  three  friends. 

I  give  some  extracts  from  my  father's  Journal  at 
Sea.  "We  left  New  York,  Lizzie  and  myself,  with 
George  William  Curtis,  August  the  first,  1846,  in  the 
packet  ship  Nebraska,  bound  for  Marseilles.  We 
number,  I  believe,  fourteen  passengers,  including 
five  children."  One  of  the  passengers  was  a  "strong 
English  woman,  who  has  crossed  the  Atlantic  twenty- 
four  times,  and  boasts  of  never  having  been  seasick 
in  her  life.  She  seems  able  to  take  command  of  the 
ship,  should  any  accident  befall  the  Captain !  and  she 
was  dubbed  by  our  party  the  'Commodore.'  "  She 
and  the  other  passengers  made  "a  very  pleasant 
company."  Later  my  father  says,  "We  left  at  twelve 
o'clock  M.  and  had  a  pleasant  afternoon  and  eve 
ning  on  deck,  —  passed  Fort  Hamilton,  where  Mrs. 
Curtis l  is  staying.  We  saw  her  waving  her  handker 
chief  from  shore,  and  responded  from  the  poop  deck; 
passed  the  Narrows,  Coney  Island,  Sandy  Hook,  and 
the  Highlands  of  Neversink.  Saw  the  city  and  all  the 
spires  and  houses  on  shore  diminish  to  white  dots 
against  the  blue,  misty  distance.  Night  set  in  ere  we 

1  Mr.  Curtis's  step-mother. 


94      CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 

took  our  last  leave  of  shore.  We  sailed  slowly  out.  We 
sang  several  duets  on  deck  in  the  moonlight,  and  so 
our  dear  native  land  was  left  behind  with  music  on 
our  lips." 

August  2.  One  long  horrid  day  of  seasickness  to  almost 
all  the  passengers.  It  all  seems  one  day  of  cheerless  blank. 
A  day  of  desperate  abandonment  to  the  sway  of  the 
grim  sea.  What  I  recollect  most  vividly  was  on  stagger 
ing  up  the  gangway,  from  my  berth  in  the  morning;  the 
view  from  the  stern  windows  looked  somewhat  thus : 


My  wonderment  was  great,  how  the  sea  ran  its  hori 
zon  so  at  an  angle  of  forty-five  degrees,  till  I  got  on 
deck  and  found  the  ship  all  on  one  side,  leaning  on  her 
elbow,  and  like  a  duck  along  the  green,  foamy  water. 

August  3.  Woke  up  well  and  have  kept  well  all  day. 
Praised  be  Providence!  Perhaps  it  was  the  "Petroleum" 
did  it;  perhaps  the  stomach  got  disgusted  with  its  day's 
work  and  took  a  new  tack;  which,  pray  Heaven,  it  may 
not  deviate  from  until  we  get  safely  into  port.  .  .  . 

The  Captain  is  a  nice  man,  very  sociable  and  enter 
taining,  fond  of  talking,  simple-hearted  and  honest  and 
good-natured;  a  regular  Yankee,  withal,  in  his  speech. 
One  of  the  most  remarkable  things  about  him  is  his  pro 
nunciation  of  the  French,  —  "Mr.  Goozoot,"  Guizot; 
and  the  "table  dot." 


FIRST  VISIT  TO  EUROPE  95 

August  4-  A  warm,  still  day.  Scarcely  any  breeze 
stirring,  so  we  crept  along  at  a  snail's  pace,  our  sails 
flapping,  sailors  doing  little,  passengers  dozing  and  en 
joying  the  dolce  far  niente.  We  sat,  all  of  us,  on  deck 
under  the  awning,  looking  on  the  calmly  swelling  waters, 
the  petrels  skimming  about  and  faintly  chirping  about 
the  ship  and  picking  up  the  crumbs,  and  diving  after 
them  —  now  and  then  in  flocks  resting  on  the  waves  for 
a  moment  at  a  distance  from  us.  Saw  a  nautilus  floating 
by  with  its  pink-edged  sail,  which  it  now  and  then  furled, 
then  spread  again.  A  school  of  large,  black  fish,  resem 
bling  the  porpoise,  looking  as  hard  and  black  and 
smooth  as  if  they  were  turned  out  of  wood  in  a  lathe, 
sailing  by  in  pairs,  sticking  up  their  sharp  fins  now  and 
then  and  their  hippopotamus,  pig  heads,  and  snorting 
like  horses.  And  once  we  caught  sight  of  a  young  whale, 
a  grampus,  I  suppose. 

August  5.  A  beautiful  morning;  wind  fair,  course  east, 
going  at  eight  knots  an  hour.  On  going  on  deck  the  air 
was  as  soft  and  summery  as  if  it  came  over  a  clover 
field  in  a  green  island.  The  wraves  swell  and  toss  and 
break  gloriously.  JT  is  surely  a  pure  delight,  a  bless 
ing,  for  which  we  cannot  be  too  grateful  to  heaven  that 
we  have  been  so  far  favored  with  such  a  prosperous 
voyage.  .  .  . 

To-day  we  passed  two  sails;  a  topsail  schooner  and 
a  ship.  The  latter  came  near  enough  for  us  to  hoist  a 
signal  and  receive  an  answer.  ...  It  was  beautiful,  this 
telegraphing  on  the  seas.  They  will  announce  us  on 
arriving,  and  our  friends  will  know  that  so  far  we  are 
safe. 

August  8.  The  other  day  we  fished  with  a  long  piece  of 
black  thread  for  Mother  Carey's  chickens  in  the  stern 
of  the  ship.  We  caught  three  or  four  and  let  them  go. 


96      CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 

They  catch  themselves  by  getting  entangled  in  the  thread 
which  they  cannot  see,  and  so  we  draw  them  up. 

With  us  three,  checkers,  backgammon,  novels,  eating 
and  sleeping,  with  a  little  promenading  and  music,  are 
the  chief  beguilers  of  our  time.  We  are  now  exactly  a 
week  out  and  have  come  near  a  thousand  miles.  But 
as  to  our  latitude  and  longitude,  I  am  ignorant.  One  of 
the  important  items  which  I  forgot,  was  to  bring  a  map 
of  the  world. 

Ten  o'clock.  To-night  I  have  been  up  on  deck  with  G., 
singing  duets  in  the  moonlight.  It  is  one  of  those  magic 
moonlights  standing  out  by  itself,  not  connected  in  asso 
ciation  with  anything  of  the  past,  but  like  a  dream.  Un 
der  the  sail  we  stood  and  looked  out  as  from  a  tent  or 
protecting  roof,  abroad  over  the  mild  ocean,  the  horizon 
a  long,  dark,  shorelike-looking  black  cloud,  but  above  it 
the  large,  unclouded  moon,  just  edging  the  extreme  dis 
tance  with  the  intensest  silver  fire,  then  interrupted  by 
the  dark  shadow  of  a  cloud,  then  bursting  out  again,  and 
flaking  the  restless  waves  for  miles  and  miles  with  its 
glorious  alchemy.  Both  to  eye  and  heart  it  was  a  scene, 
which  I  never  remember  to  have  seen  before,  made  still 
more  romantic  and  wild  by  the  harmonies  we  awoke. 
JT  was  more  like  the  old  moon  which  used  to  enchant 
me,  and  keep  me  awake  at  night,  when  just  emerging 
from  boyhood.  I  used  to  feel  music,  poetry  and  the  com 
pany  of  young  girls  with  a  vividness  of  delight  which 
hardly  comes  in  after  years. 

Monday,  August  10.  Met  a  Danish  brig;  attempted  to 
come  within  speaking  distance  of  her,  but  she  rounded 
to  in  an  unmannerly  way,  as  if  she  wished  to  have  noth 
ing  to  do  with  us.  So  we  merely  showed  our  flag,  and 
she  hers.  The  second  mate  says  she  is  a  hog. 

Last  night  was  very  beautiful  in  the  moonlight.   The 


CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE   CRAXCH 

Pencil  sketch  by  William  Wetmore  Story 


FIRST  VISIT  TO  EUROPE  97 

sails,  filled  with  the  wind,  were  rounded  like  great  sea- 
shells;  on  their  wide,  white  curves  lay  the  shadows  of 
her  masts  and  intricate  rigging,  looking  like  the  shad 
ows  of  the  forest  trees  and  branches  in  winter  against 
the  moonlit  snows. 

Tuesday,  llth.  To-day  I  feel  as  if  I  had  really  seen  the 
sea,  —  the  great,  heaving,  restless,  foaming  sea!  A  stiff 
breeze  has  been  blowing  all  day,  which  has  ruffled  up  the 
water  tremendously:  all  hands  staggering  and  pitching 
about.  The  ship  plunged  and  tossed  up  the  foam  and 
flung  the  soft  spray  over  herself,  as  if  she  really  felt  it 
all.  The  waves  rolled  around  her  magnificently. 

Thursday,  August  13.  We  are  still  sailing  on  with  a 
fair  wind,  clear  skies  and  soft  temperature.  To-day  I 
went  up  into  the  mizzentop  and  sat  some  time,  looking 
out  on  the  sea.  One  sees  something  of  the  ship  and  her 
motion  from  this  point. 

That  most  doughty  mariner  B.  has  been  telling  me  a 
long  yarn  to-night  of  a  sea  adventure  which  once  befell 
him  between  New  York  and  Boston,  to  which  I  have 
been  "listening  like  a  three  years  child."  He  seems  per 
fectly  inexhaustible  in  his  stories  of  legendary  sea-lore. 
The  Captain  is  also  very  entertaining,  and  what  is  better, 
quite  reliable  in  his  facts.  He  is  not  gifted  with  Mr.  B.'s 
imagination  and  conceit.  We  derive  quite  a  stock  of  use 
ful  information  from  the  Captain's  yarns.  They  are 
solid  stuff  that  will  wear,  but  B.  touches  somewhat  on 
fairyland;  his  soaring  fancy  scorneth  the  dry  limitations 
of  the  actual. 

Two  glorious  sunsets  I  have  seen  from  the  mizzentop. 
From  this  point  I  get  an  idea  of  the  vastness  and  loneli 
ness  of  the  ocean,  which  I  cannot  on  deck.  I  am  not 
sailor  enough  yet,  however,  to  climb  to  the  crosstrees. 
The  days  glide  by  pleasantly  enough  with  such  favoring 


98      CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE   CRANCH 

breezes  and  skies  as  these.  We  are  now  about  fifty  miles 
north  of  Corvo,  one  of  the  Azores.  This  afternoon  I  am 
sitting  on  one  of  the  quarter  boats  which  hang  from  the 
ship's  side  over  the  water.  I  look  out  over  and  over 
the  wide,  blue,  wrinkling  expanse  of  ocean,  now  rippled 
by  a  gentle  breeze  which  flaps  the  sails  above  me,  which 
shade  me  beneath  their  ample  wings.  A  delicious  sensa 
tion  of  quiet  summer  joy  almost  lulls  me  to  sleep,  — 

"The  sky  and  the  sea,  and  the  sea  and  the  sky,"  — 

around  me,  with  only  here  and  there  a  few  white  sea  birds, 
skimming  about  in  search  of  their  prey.  Could  anything 
be  more  calm  and  holy  than  this  loneliness,  this  stillness ! 

August  19.  For  a  day  or  two  we  have  been  almost  be 
calmed,  just  moving  along  as  slowly  as  possible  under 
the  most  delightful  skies.  .  .  . 

These  still,  warm  nights  are  beautiful  on  the  ocean. 
The  stars  seem  so  thick  and  multitudinous.  The  Milky 
Way  seems  brighter  and  more  distinct  than  ever  I 
saw  it.  This  motionless  group  of  star  clouds  casts  a 
bright  reflection  on  the  waves,  and  makes  a  pathway 
of  dim  light  almost  to  the  vessel.  In  the  wake,  the  foam 
streams  off  in  the  dark  water  like  smoke,  and  the  phos 
phoric  sparkles  seem  to  spring  from  some  hidden  fire 
under  the  ship. 

August  28.  We  are  not  more  than  forty  or  fifty  miles 
from  the  Straits  of  Gibraltar,  but  are  almost  becalmed. 
The  day,  however,  though  warm,  is  beautiful.  A  splen 
did  pilot  fish  has  been  swimming  about  the  ship;  he  is  the 
forerunner  of  the  shark.  His  gambols  and  perpetual  mo 
tion,  his  striped  pied  coat,  and  his  life  of  perfect  immu 
nity  and  safety,  make  him  the  harlequin  of  the  ocean. 
A  sharp  hook  is  thrown  out,  but  the  pirate  of  the  deep 
remains  uncaptured. 


FIRST  VISIT  TO  EUROPE  99 

August  29.  This  morning  at  sunrise  we  entered  the 
Straits  with  a  fine,  fresh  breeze,  and  hearts  bounding 
with  delight.   Long  before  the  sun  was  up  we  were  sum 
moned  on  deck  and  saw  the  first  dim  blue  of  the  wel 
come  land  before  us,  at  first  like  a  cloud,  then  gradually 
shaping  itself  into  distinct  and  substantial  forms.    Oh, 
what  a  gust  of  fresh  pleasure  to  see  that  we  were,  indeed, 
fast  nearing  dry  land,  and  that  land,  the  grand  moun 
tains  of  Spain  and  Africa!  There  stood  the  shores  of  the 
two  great  continents  before  us,  and  we  about  to  enter 
between  them  by  a  narrow  strait,  ten  miles  wide.  Right 
over  this  strait,  these  old  classic  waters  of  the  Medi 
terranean,  rose  a  cloudless  sun.     As  we  neared,  faster 
and  faster,  the  blue  mountains  on  either  side  were  more 
and  more  sketched  in  detail.    We  all  crowded  on  the 
forecastle;  myself,  for  one,  using  my  whole  concentrated 
power  of  eyes  in  my  eagerness  to  lose  nothing.    Here 
was  at  length  the  Old  World.   Spain,  Barbary  were  be 
fore  us.  At  night,  as  I  recall  it  all,  —  now  that  we  have 
left  the  land  again  behind  us,  —  it  all  seems  like  a  dream. 
On  the  right  was  Cape  Spartel  and  all  the  rugged  Afri 
can  mountains  heaped  and  crowded  one  behind  another. 
On  the  left,  the  hills  of  Spain,  the  heights  of  Meca, 
equally  fine,  some  of  them  splintered  and  jagged  at  their 
summit.   Drawing  nearer,  houses,  castles,  and  the  town 
of  Tangier,  on  one  side;  on  the  other,  the  town  of  Tarifa, 
with  its  square  fortification  and  military  aspect;  above  it, 
the  hills,  brown  as  autumn,  and  studded  over  with  olive 
and  other  small  trees  in  rows;  the  old  watch-towers  peep 
ing  out,  here  and  there,  square  and  Moorish-looking; 
and  at  length,  the  grand  heights  of  Sierra  Bullones,  - 
vulgarly,  Apes  Hill,  —  and  farther  on,  the  great  rock, 
fortresses  and  town  of  Gibraltar,  looming  up  gray,  grim, 
defiant,  impregnable :  its  steep  sides  all  bristling  in  guns 


100    CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE   CRAXCH 

and  caves  and  portholes,  ready,  at  the  least  sign  of  re- 
missness  in  the  customary  courtesy  of  raising  a  flag,  to 
fire  at  any  ship  that  passes.  Before  and  behind  us,  other 
vessels,  all  bound  the  same  way  with  us,  some  of  them 
picturesque-looking,  Spanish  feluccas,  with  their  triangu 
lar,  lateen  sails,  winging  along  like  large  birds,  over  the 
deep.  All  this  and  much  more,  which  cannot  now  be  dis 
tinctly  recalled,  have  made  this  morning  one  of  the  most 
delightful  in  my  life.  The  occasion  seemed  to  diffuse  a 
social  and  friendly  feeling  through  the  whole  ship.  On 
the  forecastle,  sailors  and  passengers  were  all  mingled, 
and  seemed  to  take  in  the  spectacle  as  one. 

The  whole  day  has  been  cloudless  and  beautiful.  A 
fine  breeze,  joined  with  the  current  which  sets  into  the 
Mediterranean,  has  carried  the  good  ship  along  at  the 
rate  of  twelve  knots  an  hour.  To-night,  a  glorious  moon, 
in  a  most  perfectly  cloudless  sky,  makes  these  beautiful 
waves  still  more  romantic  and  classic.  For  a  little  while 
a  watch-tower  lit  its  red  star  on  the  shore,  which,  as 
yet,  we  have,  however,  but  dimly  seen. 

August  30.  It  has  been  too  hazy  to-day  to  permit  us 
to  see  the  coast.  The  great,  towering  mountains  of  old, 
romantic  Spam  seem  to  have  drawn  over  their  faces  a 
thick  and  jealous  veil  of  mist  and  cloud,  as  if  unwilling 
to  reveal  to  us,  eager  and  curious  searchers  for  the  pic 
turesque,  their  steep  sides  of  broken  summits,  their  dark 
ravines  and  rocky  fortresses,  and  all  that  they  contain 
which  would  delight  the  eye  and  stimulate  the  imagina 
tion. 

This  afternoon,  however,  the  haze  partly  thinned 
away,  and  showed  us  the  bold  mountainous  shore  of 
Cape  De  Gat,  with  here  and  there,  on  the  steep  sides,  a 
solitary  watch-tower  overlooking  the  sea.  These  towers 
at  night  are  lit  up,  as  a  signal  for  the  detection  of  smug- 


FIRST  VISIT  TO  EUROPE  101 

gling  vessels.  Two  soldiers  are  stationed  at  each  of  them. 
They  add  much  to  the  picturesque  appearance  of  the 
cliffs.  On  our  left  we  had  a  dim,  far-off  view  of  the  moun 
tains  of  Granada,  the  Sierra  Nevadas,  which  are  very 
lofty.  The  Pyrenees  I  missed,  owing  to  the  second  mate's 
hesitation  to  wake  me  up  at  daylight.  I  would  have  sat 
up  all  night  rather  than  miss  them. 

September  6.  .  .  .  We  have  been  blessed  with  fine 
glimpses  of  the  rugged,  mountainous  coast  of  Spain. 
The  mountains  all  along  retain  their  brown,  severe,  bare, 
broken  aspect.  So  bleak  and  lonely  they  seem  as  if  they 
could  give  shelter  to  none,  save  to  beggarly  shepherds  or 
desperate  brigands.  Yet  there  are  cities  with  ships  and 
commercial  relations,  shut  in  there.  They  make  me 
think  often  of  Don  Quixote,  these  bare  mountains.  So 
must  they  have  seemed  to  his  fancy  as  they  do  to  ours, 
as  they  lie  afar  off  in  the  dim  distance,  a  kind  of  fairy 
land. 

These  islands  in  the  sea  seem  to  bask  so  dreamily. 
Beyond  Ivica  we  had  a  glimpse  of  Majorca.  To-day 
we  saw  a  rock,  strongly  resembling  a  sail.  There  are 
others  near  it;  among  them,  one,  quite  an  island:  in  it 
there  is  a  harbor,  which,  they  say,  formerly  gave  shelter 
to  Corsairs. 

Thursday,  September  10.  Calms,  calms,  nothing  but 
calms!  Making  no  headway,  but  rather  drifting  back 
ward  with  the  force  of  the  current.  To-day  we  are 
passing  Barcelona,  with  its  fortress  of  Montjui.  We 
are  about  twelve  miles  from  the  shore;  but  with  a  glass 
can  see  towers,  houses,  churches,  monasteries,  fishing 
smacks. 

Perhaps,  after  all,  it  is  best  that  we  can  only  see  these 
shores  from  a  distance,  and  through  the  soft-tinted  veil 
of  romance  which  the  name  Spain  throws  over  all.  A 


CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 

nearer  view  might  destroy  some  of  our  visions.  Yet  I 
think  not,  for  all  would  be  so  new  and  foreign,  and  even 
bad  inns,  fleas,  beggarly  priests  and  thieves,  the  lazy 
muleteers  and  abominable  roads,  would  remind  us  of  Gil 
Bias  and  the  Knight  of  La  Mancha. 

We  have  at  length  got  fairly  round  Cape  Sebastian, 
and  are  to-day  crossing  the  Gulf  of  Lyons  and  beating 
up  to  Marseilles.  Here  it  is  always  windy.  It  is  Sun 
day,  —  our  seventh  Sunday  aboard,  —  and  a  glorious 
day  it  has  been!  The  wind  has  been  blowing  hard  from 
the  north  all  day,  but  as  soft  and  mild  a  breath  as  France 
ever  breathed,  and  laden,  too,  with  a  delicious  perfume 
of  the  fields.  This  fragrance  of  clover  and  hay,  fifty  miles 
off  from  shore,  was  to  me  something  exceedingly  new 
and  delightful.  France  surely  has  sent  out  a  sweet,  sub 
tle  spirit  of  health  and  greeting,  to  welcome  us  into  our 
long-desired  harbor.  The  waves  pitch  us  about  some 
what,  but  as  in  joyous  sportiveness,  as  if  they  were 
pleased  at  bearing  us  in.  The  air  has  been  perfect  to 
day,  warm,  yet  bracing. 

To-night  the  sea  stars  are  flashing  in  the  foam  behind 
the  ship.  I  have  never  seen  these  pure,  cold  fires  under 
the  salt  waves  kindle  and  float  on  so  vividly  before. 
They  seem  like  sparks  from  some  submarine  furnace, 
struck  from  the  ship's  keel  by  the  foaming  waters. 

Arrived  at  Marseilles  on  the  morning  of  Septem 
ber  16. 

Left  on  the  afternoon  of  the  17th  in  the  Poliphemus, 
a  miserable  old  Italian  steamer.  We  were  landed  at 
Genoa,  the  evening  of  the  18th,  and  were  shown  to  the 
Hotel  di  Felicita. 

Genoa.  Our  room  looks  upon  the  harbor;  shipping, 
customs  offices,  villas,  churches,  vineyards,  lie  in  the  dis 
tance,  rising  behind  one  another  on  our  right;  right  under 


FIRST  VISIT  TO  EUROPE  103 

us  is  an  immense  court,  where  the  market  people  seem 
to  be  collected.  Carts  with  enormous  wheels,  drawn  by 
mules,  and  donkeys  with  loaded  paniers,  and  noses  stuck 
down  into  straw  muzzles,  where  it  may  be  supposed  they 
are  feeding,  not  suffocating.  .  .  .  Here,  Genoa,  we  spent 
the  greater  part  of  the  day  in  sight-seeing.  Hired  a  cicerone 
for  four  francs,  who  showed  us  four  or  five  churches  — 
San  Lucca,  San  Giro,  the  chapel  of  Andrea  Doria  and 
the  Cathedral.  .  .  .  These  churches  are  very  splendid. 
We  visited  three  palaces:  the  Palazzo  Brignole,  the  royal 
palace,  and  the  Palazzo  Durazzo.  Here  we  saw  some  of 
the  finest  of  the  works  of  the  old  masters,  Rubens,  Van 
dyke  (the  Italians  spell  his  name  Wandik),  Titian,  Paul 
Veronese,  Carlo  Dolce,  Guido,  the  Carraccis,  Andrea 
del  Sarto,  etc.,  etc.  I  think  I  was  most  struck  with  the 
Vandykes  and  Guidos.  Two  full-length  portraits  of  the 
Marquis  Brignole  on  horseback  and  the  Marchesa  Brig 
nole,  and  some  of  his  portraits  of  children  seemed  to 
me  his  best.  .  .  . 

Saw  a  statue  of  Christopher  Columbus  and  a  house 
erected  in  his  honor,  also  the  place  on  which  it  is  sup 
posed  his  house  stood.  A  monument  is  to  be  erected  on 
this  spot,  with  a  statue  of  the  great  world  discoverer,  by 
Bartolini,  upon  it.  The  first  stone  of  this  was  not  long 
since  laid  by  the  King  of  Sardinia  and  consecrated  by 
the  Archbishop.  The  exterior  of  the  Palazzo  Doria  we 
saw,  but  the  building  was  undergoing  repairs  and  we 
could  not  enter.  A  statue  of  Andrea  Doria  as  Neptune, 
of  gigantic  dimensions,  stands  in  a  niche  in  the  sloping 
gardens  of  the  palace. 

In  another  place,  in  niches  on  the  side  of  two  houses 
stand,  not  far  asunder,  a  statue  of  Columbus  and  an 
other  of  Doria.  Under  the  former  stands  this  inscrip 
tion:  — 


104    CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE   CRANCH 

"Dissi,  volli,  il  creai 
Ecco  un  secondo 
Sorger  nuovo  dall'  onde 
Ignoto  mondo."  l 

.  .  .  Columbus  and  Doria  are  the  gods  of  the  Genoese. 
...  In  the  narrow  streets,  under  the  tall  houses,  we 
were  constantly  at  almost  every  turn  coming  upon  old 
doorways  and  shrines  and  bas-reliefs  of  exquisite  and 
quaint  workmanship  —  old  melancholy  relics,  which 
were  forever,  in  the  midst  of  modern  poverty  and  de 
gradation,  pointing  back  to  days  of  serene  and  palmy 
splendor.  Up  these  broad  steps  the  old  doges  once 
stepped,  robed  and  crowned,  to  their  thrones  and  coun 
cil  chambers.  Before  these  shrines  knelt  men  of  the  stamp 
of  Doria  and  Columbus.  Merchant  princes  once  looked 
from  these  balconies  over  this  most  beautiful  of  har 
bors,  where  their  spice-laden  argosies  lay  riding  at 
anchor. 

The  following  brief  extracts  are  from  the  Auto 
biography: — 

Reached  Leghorn  the  20th;  from  there  we  went  by 
vettura  to  Florence.  Then  (after  about  a  month  there) 
we  went  by  vettura  to  Rome,  taking  five  or  six  days  for 
a  journey  of  a  hundred  and  eighty  miles.  We  arrived  in 
Rome  about  the  last  of  October.  We  had  intended 
making  only  a  short  visit,  and  expected  to  return  to 
Florence.  Besides  the  wonderful  attractions  for  us,  in 
which  Rome  stood  alone,  I  found  that  this  was  the  place 
of  all  others  in  Italy  for  the  life  of  an  artist.  There  is 
nothing  in  the  world  like  Rome.  Here  was  picturesque 
material  on  every  side  in  superabundance.  And  here 

1  He  spoke,  he  willed,  he  created. 
Behold  a  second  unknown  world 
Rise  from  the  sea. 


FIRST  VISIT  TO  EUROPE  105 

were  American  friends  and  artists.  The  famous  places 
to  be  seen,  St.  Peter's,  the  Coliseum,  and  other  cele 
brated  ruins,  the  Vatican,  the  Capitoline  and  other  gal 
leries,  the  villas  outside  the  walls,  the  Carnival,  —  the 
endless  sights  to  be  seen,  —  these  in  themselves  were 
enough  to  occupy  us  from  day  to  day.  But  there  were 
open-air  pictures  waiting  to  be  painted  everywhere 
around  us,  and  on  the  wonderful  Campagna,  so  that 
there  was  a  perpetual  stimulus  to  draw  and  paint.  The 
climate  was  so  mild  that  working  out  of  doors  was  usu 
ally  practicable.  And  I  soon  joined  a  night-school  where 
students  drew  and  painted  in  water  colors  from  cos 
tumed  models.  The  cost  was  about  a  dollar  and  a  half 
per  month!  During  the  two  winters  we  were  in  Rome 
I  made  a  large  number  of  studies. 

Rome,  November,  1846.  We  took  advantage  of  the 
first  fine  moonlight  to  visit  the  Coliseum,  steering  our 
course  by  the  map,  and  without  that  troublesome  and 
expensive  appendage,  a  cicerone.  Wey  took  our  way  to 
ward  the  ruins,  stopped  to  contemplate  the  old  Forum, 
the  Arch  of  Septimius  Severus,  the  Pillar  of  Phocas,  and 
all  the  ruins  in  that  vicinity,  —  all  steeped  in  the  loveli 
est  of  moonlights.  We  passed  under  the  small  Arch  of 
Titus,  and  stood  before  the  Coliseum.  For  some  time 
we  stood,  or  walked  around  on  the  outside,  reserving 
the  impression  of  entering,  like  something  too  rare  and 
sacred  to  be  hastily  snatched.  But  the  temptation 
proved  to  be  too  strong  to  be  long  resisted,  and  entering 
by  one  of  the  smaller  arches,  before  we  reached  the  open 
area,  we  enjoyed  through  the  openings  of  the  walls  and 
arches  glorious  gleams  of  the  opposite  walls.  At  last  we 
drew  slowly  to  the  centre,  and  never  have  I  beheld  be 
fore  anything  to  compare  with  that  scene.  First,  the 
night  was  perfect  and  unclouded,  the  air  mild,  the  moon 


106    CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE   CRANCH 

nearly  full  and  brimming  over  with  light.  Around  us 
stretched  and  towered  up  the  solemn,  imperial,  old  ruin, 
circling  us  like  a  gigantic  spell  of  the  hoary  past.  Ages 
on  ages  seemed  looking  down  on  us.  We  walked  around 
in  the  deep  shadows,  with  feelings  hushed  into  silent 
reverence.  We  climbed  up  and  saw  the  moon  looking 
through  the  rifts  and  bare,  desolate  arches,  and  "the 
stars  twinkling  through  the  loops  of  time." 

From  Mrs.  Cranch's  Journal:  — 

Rome,  November  1,  1846.  This  morning  we  went  to 
St.  Peter's.  Never  shall  I  forget  the  impression  that  the 
vastness  and  richness  and  its  harmonious  grandeur  made 
(upon  me.  I  had  never  seen  any  descriptions  of  it,  and 
only  heard  of  its  immensity,  so  that  I  was  totally  un 
prepared  for  the  elaborate  design  and  rich  finish  of  the 
interior.  The  proportions  are  so  perfect  that  its  size 
does  not  at  first  strike  you;  until  you  measure  some  single 
object,  you  are  not  aware  of  the  greatness  of  the  whole. 
There  was  no  service  when  we  entered,  and  it  was  more 
agreeable  to  me  to  see  it  thus  than  to  have  the  beauty 
marred  by  some  of  those  nasal  chants  of  the  priests,  —  a 
fine  old  mass,  a  fugue,  would  be  consistent  to  listen  to 
,  there,  but  nothing  less.  As  we  walked  around  this  grand 
pile  of  architecture,  it  seemed  hard  to  realize  that  it  was 
built  by  man;  it  seems  as  eternal  as  the  mountains  and 
hills;  as  if  God  had  made  it. 

The  pictures  behind  all  the  altars  were  of  mosaic,  ex 
cept  one,  which  is  an  oil;  the  statues,  all  of  which  are 
colossal  though  they  do  not  look  so,  are  not  the  finest. 
However,  there  is  one  by  Canova  with  two  dying  lions, 
which  is  said  to  be  the  masterpiece.  "  The  Genius  of 
Death,"  with  reversed  torch,  is  beautiful,  while  the  lions 
—  especially  one  sleeping  one  —  are  perfect.  One  group 


FIRST  VISIT  TO  EUROPE  107 

of  Thorwaldsen  did  not  please  me  so  much;  it  is  not 
counted  as  one  of  the  best.  The  whole  interior  of  the 
church  is  less  expressive  of  genius  than  of  grandeur  and 
a  display  of  the  papal  emblems  and  riches.  But  how 
it  overwhelms  an  American  taste  like  mine  to  see  such 
splendor!  My  head  was  fairly  heavy  with  the  weight 
of  all  this  magnificence.  One  is  lost  in  wonder  and  sur 
prise  and  can  only  wander  around  among  the  niches  and 
altars  breathless  and  mute  with  astonishment. 

Pearse  has  already  commenced  his  costume  school, 
and  goes  regularly  with  thirty  or  forty  young  artists  to 
draw  and  paint  from  models  of  Italian  costume,  every 
evening  at  eight  o'clock.  We  have  nearly  —  indeed,  I 
may  say,  quite  —  decided  to  pass  the  winter  here  in 
Rome,  instead  of  at  Florence,  as  we  had  at  first  intended. 
There  are  many  more  advantages  here  for  Pearse  as  an 
artist,  and  we  both  prefer  Rome  much,  though  we  shall 
not  be  nearly  as  comfortable  as  to  domestic  arrange 
ments,  but,  thank  fortune,  I  do  not  make  them  of  great 
importance  and  am  willing  to  put  up  with  anything  for 
the  sake  of  living  in  Rome. 

We  are  domiciled  in  the  house  of  a  kind-hearted  little 
woman  named  Bordoni,  who  is  most  attentive  to  all  my 
wants,  and  who  is  honest  and  simple.  We  take  our  din-  | 
ners  at  the  Lepre,  the  largest  trattoria  in  Rome,  though 
not  the  most  elegant.  We  have  very  good  cooking  and 
quite  cheap  too.  Then  we  meet  some  three  or  four  Ameri 
can  artists  and  have  pleasant  talks.  Mr.  Freeman,  Mr.  j 
Hicks,  and  Kensett  are  interesting  young  artists  whom 
we  like  much.  Altogether  the  life  here  is  very  pleasant, 
apart  from  the  great  attractions  of  the  place.  The  air 
on  the  hill  of  the  Quirinal  Palace,  which  we  are  quite 
near,  is  very  fresh  and  good. 

We  have  seen  the  new  Pope,  who  is  so  much  beloved, 


108    CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE   CRANCH 

and  with  good  reason,  for  he  has  liberated  all  political 
offenders,  and  has  commenced  his  reign  with  benevolence 
and  justice.  To-morrow  is  to  be  a  great  procession, 
which  the  Pope  leads  through  several  streets  to  the  old 
est  church  in  Rome,  St.  John  of  Lateran.  There,  some 
grand  ceremony  is  to  take  place,  he  is  to  receive  the 
keys  of  the  church,  after  which  Pope,  cardinals,  mili 
tary,  and  all  are  to  march  back  again  through  the  city 
to  the  Quirinal  Palace.  We  are  going  to  try  to  get  a  sight 
of  the  procession,  and  see  some  of  the  enthusiasm  of  the 
Romans  en  masse.  The  city  is  full  of  people  who  come 
to  be  present  at  this  festival,  and  I  hope  to  see  some 
thing  quite  grand  in  the  way  of  a  show. 

As  yet,  we  have  received  no  letters  from  home,  and  it 
is  three  months,  and  more,  since  we  left  New  York.  .  .  . 
The  seventh  of  November  blows  coldly  in  America, 
while  we  are  living  without  fires,  and  sit  half  the  day 
with  windows  open.  Honeysuckles  and  roses  in  full 
bloom  in  the  open  air,  and  orange  and  lemon  trees  hang 
ing  full  of  fruit  in  all  the  gardens.  I  have  bought  a  little 
Roman  vase,  and  have  it  filled  with  honeysuckle  and 
flowers  that  we  picked  at  the  Baths  of  Caracalla. 

November  12.  This  evening  I  feel  very  tired,  for  we 
have  been  through  the  Vatican,  and  walked  home  after 
wards.  Yes,  we  have  made  our  first  visit  to  the  Vatican, 
but  my  memory  is  confused  with  its  treasures.  I  remem 
ber  quite  distinctly,  however,  the  Apollo,  the  Laocoon, 
and  Domenichino's  picture  of  the  Last  Communion  of 
St.  Gerome.  .  .  . 

We  got  lost  once  or  twice  in  the  infinite  number  of 
rooms,  and  our  heads  were  fairly  heavy  with  the  weight 
of  riches  and  beauty  around  us.  We  could  look  at  noth 
ing  well,  but  walked  on,  feeling  almost  dizzy  with  the 
variety  and  countless  numbers  of  rare  objects  of  antique 


FIRST  VISIT  TO  EUROPE  109 

beauty  on  all  sides  of  us.  The  Sistine  Chapel,  where 
live  the  frescoes  of  Michael  Angelo,  we  did  not  see. 

November  18.  Evening.  Pearse  and  George  at  the 
Lepre.  I  prefer  now  to  dine  at  my  room.  Our  little 
padrona  cooks  me  a  bistecca,  as  they  Italianize  beefsteak, 
and  I  make  various  nice  dishes  of  tomatoes,  rice,  etc., 
on  my  small  stove,  so  that  I  get  a  simple  dinner  for  eight 
or  ten  baiocchi,  without  the  trouble  of  a  long  walk  to  the 
trattoria.  Indeed,  it  is  surprising  how  comfortably  we 
can  live  here  in  one  room,  and  with  what  little  expense. 

I  have  a  lovely  bunch  of  roses  in  my  black  vase,  which 
was  picked  from  Tenerani's  garden  —  the  Italian  sculp 
tor  —  yesterday  morning,  blooming  in  the  open  air, 
and  for  which  I  only  gave  one  baioc. 

Since  I  last  wrote  here,  I  had  a  nice  letter  from  home, 
yes,  a  nice  letter  from  Carry  (Mrs.  Downing),  but  not 
half  minute  enough ;  she  forgets  I  am  three  or  four  thou 
sand  miles  off,  and  writes  as  if  I  were  in  New  York. 
Grandma  and  Aunty  are  enjoying  good  health.  I  can 
see  them  in  their  quiet  little  home,  on  the  banks  of  the 
glorious  Hudson.  There  is  no  place  I  have  yet  seen 
seems  to  me  more  beautiful  than  the  shores  of  the  North 
River,  with  its  clear,  bracing,  fine  air,  and  strong,  rich 
scenery;  although  it  wants  the  noble,  picturesque,  old 
ruins  of  Rome,  to  give  it  poetical  and  classic  associations. 
On  Sunday  last  we  walked  out  to  San  Giovanni  di  Lat- 
erani,  and  saw  at  sunset  the  grand  view  from  its  porch, 
with  the  ruined  and  broken  arches  of  the  ancient  Aque 
duct,  lit  up  by  the  soft,  mellow  rays  of  an  Italian  sun. 
Behind  the  arches,  as  they  went  stretching  along  for 
miles  on  the  Campagna,  rose  the  blue,  distant  moun 
tains  called  the  Sabine  Hills,  and  still  above  them  were 
piled  the  snowy-topped  Apennines,  all  bathed  in  a 
golden  and  purplish  mist.  It  was  indeed  exquisitely 


110    CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 

beautiful,  and  we  walked  home  in  the  quiet,  cool  evening, 
with  our  minds  full  of  the  beauty  we  had  seen.  That 
same  evening  Kensett  and  Hicks  came  to  see  us,  and 
I  had  prepared  for  them  some  good,  strong  tea,  and  some 
American  apple  sauce,  which  they  seemed  to  relish 
much,  and  we  had  a  merry  time  around  our  table,  that 
night. 

A  young  American,  Mr.  Boardman,  has  died,  since  I 
last  wrote;  his  death  and  sickness  were  quite  touching 
from  their  loneliness.  George  was  with  him  the  night  he 
died,  and  was  very  busy  the  day  after,  attending  to 
things  which  were  necessary  for  the  arrangement  of  his 
funeral.  On  Saturday  last  he  was  buried  in  the  English 
burying-ground,  where  rest  Shelley  and  Keats.  Almost 
all  the  Americans  in  Rome  attended  his  funeral ;  and  there 
they  left  him,  or  only  what  was  mortal  of  him,  who  had 
but  a  week  or  two  before  been  dining  with  us  at  the 
trattoria,  and  who  was  as  unconscious  of  his  own  dan 
gerous  state  of  health  as  it  was  possible  for  him  to  be. 

To-night,  as  usual,  Christopher  is  at  the  costume 
school.  George  went  to  take  tea  with  Mrs.  Crawford. 
I  was  to  have  gone  with  him,  but  was  too  tired  to  at 
tempt  such  a  long  walk,  and  am  sorry,  for  I  like  Mr.  C.'s 
looks  better  every  time  I  see  him,  and  should  like  to 
know  more  of  him.  He  reminds  me  a  little  of  William 
Channing,  and  how  could  I  help  liking  him,  if  he  reminds 
me  of  one  I  admire  so  much?  Pearse  and  I  will  go  there 
soon  together,  for  Mrs.  C.  has  invited  us  to  come  when 
ever  we  feel  inclined  to. 

November  26.  George  and  Pearse  have  gone  to  take  a 
Thanksgiving  dinner  with  Terry,  who  has  invited  some 
half-dozen  other  Americans  to  keep  this  New  England 
festival  at  his  rooms;  no  doubt  they  will  have  a  merry 
time,  and  I  am  sorry  I  could  not  join  them.  Mr.  Terry 


FIRST  VISIT  TO  EUROPE  111 

sent  me  word  he  was  sorry  he  had  not  a  wife;  if  he  had, 
he  would  invite  me.  I  sent  him  word  I  hoped  he  would 
not  fail  to  have  one  before  next  Thanksgiving,  for  my 
sake  as  well  as  his  own. 

Since  Monday  last,  I  have  been  out  very  little,  as  it 
has  rained  often;  though  I  went  with  George  to  see  the 
Casino  in  the  garden  of  the  Rospigliosi,  which  has 
Guide's  Aurora,  painted  in  fresco  on  the  ceiling.  We 
enjoyed  it  highly,  though  it  nearly  broke  our  necks  to 
look  at  it.  The  coloring  is  exquisite;  nothing  can  be 
more  beautiful  than  the  figures  of  the  hours,  which  sur 
round  the  car  of  Apollo.  The  horses  are  splendid,  so  full 
of  fire  and  life;  indeed  there  is  a  sort  of  rhythm  in  the 
picture;  one  almost  fancies  as  one  looks  at  it,  to  hear  a 
burst  of  music  from  it.  It  is  as  full  of  freshness  and  of 
poetry  as  the  morning,  which  it  represents. 

We  have  a  hive  of  artists  here,  of  all  nations,  too: 
Italian,  French,  Scotch,  German,  and  American.  Be 
sides  there  is  a  variety  of  music;  there  are  three  guitars, 
one  grand  piano,  a  violoncello,  two  flutes,  and  an  accor 
dion.  Some  mornings  I  hear  the  German  in  the  room 
opposite,  sounding  some  fine  chords  on  his  piano,  or 
playing  some  of  the  good  German  music,  which  he  plays 
finely.  Then  again  as  I  sit  at  my  painting,  sometimes  I 
hear  a  groaning  and  sighing  of  the  Frenchman's  violon 
cello  upstairs;  it  sounds  like  a  mighty  musical  wind  blow 
ing  through  the  forests.  In  the  afternoon  or  evening,  the 
Scotchman's  guitar  tinkles  an  accompaniment  to  some 
pretty  little  Neapolitan  song  that  his  master  is  teaching 
him.  When  Christopher  comes  in  tired,  he  seizes  his 
flute  and  warbles  some  sweet  air  upon  it,  —  some  of 
Schubert's  songs  or  some  sweet  Italian  air;  so  that  we 
have  music,  painting,  and  sculpture  in  the  house, — two 
young  sculptors  have  their  studio  on  the  ground  floor, 


CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE   CRANCH 

-  then  George  is  the  poet,  and  Pearse  another,  though 
he  has  not  written  a  line  for  many  months  now.  Still, 
the  muse  will  visit  him  again  at  the  fitting  time.  We 
have  all  the  arts  here,  it  is  quite  a  little  Parnassus. 

Last  night  George  came  in  and  read  me  some  extracts 
of  Browning's  poems.  One  called  "Christina,"  and  a 
love-song  to  a  Spanish  girl,  walking  in  a  garden,  were 
both  full  of  quaintness  and  originality,  and  brimful  of 
beauty.  I  only  wish  we  had  his  poems,  and  George  to 
read  them  to  me,  for  it  requires  some  study  to  discover 
their  meaning,  his  style  is  so  involved.  I  feel  very  much 
the  want  of  books  here.  Monaldini's  circulating  library 
has  very  little  but  novels  in  it,  and  his  books  are  too  ex 
pensive  to  buy,  so  that  I  shall  have  to  hunt  up,  in  some 
other  way,  some  French  or  English  books,  for  I  must  read 
something.  I  have  just  finished  Beckford's  "Sketches 
in  Italy,"  without  much  enjoyment.  Sir  Francis  Head's 
"Bubbles  from  the  Brunnen,"  are  sprightly,  pleasant 
reading,  and  now  I  am  skimming  over  "Corinne,"  to 
see  what  Madame  de  Stael  says  of  the  antiquities  of 
Rome,  having  read  it  always  before  for  the  love  part 
of  it. 

December  4-  Burrill  [Curtis]  has  arrived  since  my  last 
record  here.  He  came  more  than  a  week  ago,  after  we 
had  been  expecting  him  for  many  days.  Indeed,  I  had 
begun  to  feel  very  anxious  about  him,  as  we  knew  he  had 
sailed  from  America  the  first  of  October,  and  when  the 
26th  of  November  came,  and  still  no  tidings  of  him,  I 
felt  somewhat  alarmed.  It  was  late  one  night.  George 
and  Pearse  were  singing,  when  we  were  startled  by  a 
loud  cry  from  the  street,  of  "George,  George,"  and  many 
bangs  and  thumps  accompanying  the  voice.  After  some 
moments  we  ran  to  the  window,  and  there  by  the  side 
of  an  Italian,  with  a  great  black  trunk  on  his  head,  stood 


THE  CURTIS  BROTHERS 

(GEORGE  WILLIAM  AND  BURRILL) 

From  a  painting  by  Thomas  Hicks 


FIRST  VISIT  TO  EUROPE  113 

Biirrill,  looking  up  at  us,  and  wondering  how  to  get  into 
the  house,  not  yet  being  accustomed  to  Italian  entrances, 
which  are  rather  peculiar.  He  had  arrived  late  in  the 
diligence  from  Civita  Vecchia,  and  could  not  bear  the 
idea  of  going  to  a  hotel  without  seeing  us  that  night,  so 
had  set  out  in  search  of  us,  and  the  song  had  directed 
him,  as  he  knew  the  voices,  though  he  could  not  tell 
from  what  house  they  proceeded.  We  ^listened  to  the 
account  of  his  voyage,  and  of  all  our  friends  across  the 
water.  He  brought  me  letters  from  home,  with  mostly 
good  news. 

Yesterday  was  an  exciting  day  for  all  within  the  walls 
of  Rome,  for  it  was  the  day  of  the  great  inundation,  such 
as  has  not  been  known  for  forty  years  or  more.  The 
Tiber,  owing  to  the  great  rains  of  late,  grew  riotous,  and 
leaping  all  bounds,  came  flowing  into  the  city,  filling  up 
the  lower  stories  of  the  houses  with  water  and  mak 
ing  prisoners  of  the  upper  inmates.  Many  streets  have 
been,  and  are  still,  impassable,  except  with  boats.  The 
Ghetto,  or  Jews'  quarter,  is  all  afloat,  and  it  is  said  there 
must  be  much  suffering  there.  They  are  all  locked  up 
in  that  quarter  every  night,  and  cannot  escape  from  it, 
except  to  the  tops  of  the  houses.  We  are  so  much  on  the 
hill,  being  halfway  up  the  Monte  Cavallo,  we  have  not 
suffered  any  inconvenience  from  it,  and  except  for  the 
excitement  and  interest  we  have  felt,  have  not  been 
participators  in  the  general  commotion. 

December  27.  Christmas  has  passed  with  us  in  this 
city  of  churches  and  of  priests,  and  we  have  seen  several 
of  the  fine  shows  of  cardinals  in  their  rich  dresses;  a  pro 
cession  in  Santa  Maria  Maggiore  in  which  the  Pope  is 
carried  in  a  rich  chair,  or  canopy,  and  followed  by  the 
holy  Bambino.  The  church,  which  is  a  very  rich  one, 
was  most  elegantly  illuminated  with  wax  candles  and 


114    CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE   CRANCH 

ornamented  with  rich  and  tasteful  draperies.  The  mid 
dle  of  the  church  was  guarded  by  a  line  of  Swiss  sol 
diers.  The  Pope's  bodyguard,  who  kept  a  free  passage 
way  for  the  procession,  all  kneeled  as  the  Pope  passed, 
and  outside  were  thousands  of  people,  crowding  close 
upon  the  guard.  We  had  a  good  view  of  the  ceremony, 
heard  the  chanting,  which  was  not  very  fine,  and  after 
staying  from  two  to  three  hours,  we  came  home  with  a 
party  of  our  friends,  who  stayed  with  us  till  twelve,  and 
then  left  to  go  to  the  midnight  mass  at  San  Luigi,  where 
they  heard  good  music.  Pearse  did  not  get  home  until 
two  o'clock  in  the  morning,  when  he  slept  some  five  hours, 
and  set  out  for  St.  Peter's,  to  see  the  great  display  there 
for  Christmas  Day.  I  suppose  this  is  the  greatest  church 
show  that  is  to  be  seen  in  the  world. 

On  Christmas  night,  Pearse  and  I  went  to  the  Ameri 
can  consul's,  Mr.  Brown's.  Yesterday  Mrs.  Crawford 
called  in  her  carriage,  attended  by  baby,  nurse,  and  all 
the  accessories  of  a  grand  lady,  and  invited  me  to  ride 
with  her  to  St.  Peter's.  So  we  arrived  there  just  in  time 
for  vespers,  and  I  heard  some  of  the  finest  church  music 
I  ever  listened  to,  and  we  walked  around  the  church. 
Mrs.  C.  invited  us  to  a  party  at  her  house  on  New 
Year's,  to  hear  Mr.  Solyman  play  the  piano.  I  suppose 
it  will  be  a  large  party,  and  having  no  party  dress  I  shall 
probably  not  go. 

December  30.  Last  night,  being  a  beautiful  moonlit 
evening,  I  went  with  a  party  of  gentlemen  to  see  the 
Coliseum  by  moonlight.  Pearse  did  not  go,  as  he  had 
been  there  twice  before,  at  night,  and  besides  was  busy 
at  his  costume  school.  Our  party  was  entirely  Ameri 
can;  it  consisted  of  George  and  Burrill,  Hicks,  Terry, 
and  Schlossen,  all  those  whom  I  meet  every  day  at  the 
Lepre.  I  see  so  few  ladies  that  I  am  becoming  quite 


FIRST  VISIT  TO  EUROPE  115 

accustomed  to  living  without  them.  We  went  from  the 
Lepre,  where  we  dine  daily  at  five,  to  the  Caffee  Nuovo, 
a  large  and  handsome  cafe,  where  smoking  was  not  al 
lowed,  and  after  the  gentlemen  had  taken  their  cup  of 
caffee  nero,  we  set  out  for  the  Coliseum,  crossing  the  Capi- 
toline  Hill,  down  past  the  Forum,  through  the  Arch  of 
Titus,  to  that  grandest  of  all  ruins,  which  looked  so 
desolate  and  grim  in  the  moonlight,  its  time-worn  arches 
and  galleries  speaking  so  strongly  of  the  past,  that  one 
could  linger  and  dream  there  for  hours.  .  .  . 

From  Mr.  Cranch's  Journal:  — 

The  benediction  I  would  not  have  missed  for  a  good 
deal.  It  was  very  fine.  A  large  space  immediately  under 
the  great  Balcony  was  occupied  by  the  soldiers,  and  out 
side  of  them  was  an  immense  crowd.  When  the  Pope 
came  forward,  borne  upon  his  throne,  and  chanted  out 
the  blessing  in  a  clear,  loud  voice,  the  soldiers  and  peo 
ple  all  kneeled  or  stood  uncovered;  and  at  the  close  of 
each  verse  and  of  the  benediction,  the  drums  and  can 
non  answered. 

November  22.  We  went  the  other  day  into  the  church 
of  Santa  Maria  degli  Angeli.  It  was  built  by  Michael 
Angelo,  and  is  the  most  beautiful  church,  I  think,  I  ever 
saw.  The  paintings  are,  many  of  them,  very  fine.  Here 
I  saw  Domenichino's  St.  Sebastian,  a  fresco  of  wonder 
ful  power  and  beauty. 

Visited  "Propagandi"  College  to  see  NcNeal,  a  fellow 
passenger  on  the  Nebraska,  —  a  cold,  formal,  prison- 
like  place.  The  library,  however,  is  very  rich  and  fine; 
full  of  the  most  rare  and  valuable  old  tomes. 

The  most  beautiful  of  places  about  Rome  are  the 
grounds  of  the  Borghese  Villa.  Here  you  have  the  fin 
est  combination  of  nature  and  art.  Shady  lanes,  half 


116    CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 

covered  at  this  mellow  season  with  fallen  leaves,  leading 
to  stately  palaces  and  antique  temples;  Grecian  and 
Egyptian  gateways;  statues;  fountains  and  artificial 
lakes.  Deep  groves  of  ilex  and  tall  Italian  pines  sur 
round  you;  and  from  one  hill,  crowned  with  a  ruined 
summer  house,  you  look  back  on  gardens  and  groves, 
over  to  St.  Peter's,  and  in  another  direction  on  the  Cam- 
pagna  and  Mount  Soracte.  This  hill  is  one  of  the  love 
liest  spots.  We  spent  half  a  day  in  wandering  over  the 
grounds,  and  returning  by  sunset,  saw  the  dome  of  St. 
Peter's  suffused  in  purple  haze  against  the  sun,  with  an 
arch  and  fountain  in  the  foreground,  for  a  frame  to  the 
picture,  forming  a  most  picturesque  combination. 

January  11.  Christmas  Eve,  —  great  doings  and  most 
brilliant  illumination  in  the  Sta.  Maria  Maggiore,  and 
the  church  of  San  Luigi  in  Francese,  at  midnight,  when 
we  heard  fine  music. 

On  Christmas  Day  at  St.  Peter's,  an  immense  crowd, 
and  a  gorgeous  show  of  costume,  among  the  great  of  the 
Church  and  State,  the  Pope  performing  high  mass,  in 
the  body  of  the  church.  The  singing  by  the  Pope's  choir 
was  very  fine;  and  at  the  elevation  of  the  Host,  a  slow, 
solemn  strain  from  a  band  of  wind  instruments,  was 
exceedingly  impressive. 

On  Twelfth  Night  went  to  the  Fair.  Great  crowd, 
and  a  tremendous  noise;  everybody  pushing,  talking, 
and  screaming;  bands  of  boys  and  men  with  horns  and 
whistles,  penny  trumpets  and  rattles,  parading  about; 
each  one  trying  to  blow  his  loudest,  the  whole  perfectly 
deadening.  What  singular  and  apparently  childish  forms 
the  Italians'  fondness  for  excitement  and  amusement 
takes! 

Miserere  and  other  fine  music,  sung  at  a  concert  by  the 
Pope's  choir,  February  4.  This  was  the  richest  music  of 


.FIRST  VISIT  TO  EUROPE  117 

this  character.  Nothing  could  be  grander  than  the  har 
monies,  or  more  sweet  and  tender.  The  execution  was 
wonderful. 

Born  in  Rome  a  son,  George  William  Cranch,  March 
11,  1847,  named  for  George  William  Curtis. 

From  the  Autobiography :  — 

Easter  Sunday,  April  4,  I  attended  the  services  at  St. 
Peter's,  after  which  Pope  Pio  Nono  gave  his  benediction 
from  a  high  balcony  to  the  crowd.  .  .  .  The  great  Piazza 
San  Pietro  was  one  dense  black  mass  of  human  beings, 
mingled  with  carriages  and  the  bristling  bayonets  and 
gay  uniform  of  soldiers.  At  night  was  the  wonderful 
illumination  of  the  great  dome.  The  first  blaze  of  splen 
dor  was  impressive,  but  the  glory  of  this  was  dimmed 
by  the  second  —  the  lesser  lights  being  swallowed  up 
in  the  blaze,  like  stars  at  sunrise.  It  was  a  glorious 
sight! 

The  next  evening  we  had  the  famous  Girandola,  or 
fireworks,  at  the  Castle  of  St.  Angelo,  a  spectacle  which 
rivals  the  illumination  of  St.  Peter's.  The  whole  castle 
was  at  first  illuminated  with  a  thousand  intense  lights, 
which  studded  it  thickly  all  over,  and  burned  with  the 
splendor  of  daylight,  lighting  up  the  whole  landscape 
far  and  near,  and  turning  the  very  Tiber  into  reflected 
fire.  Then  burst  out  thousands  of  rockets  in  all  direc 
tions  like  a  tree  of  fire.  Some  of  these  bursting  in  the 
air  sent  out  multitudes  of  fiery  serpents,  which  hissed 
and  twisted  and  writhed  in  the  air.  Then  magnificent 
fire-wheels  revolved.  Then  the  whole  castle  was  illumi 
nated  with  glorious  crimson  lights,  while  the  windows 
were  the  most  delicate  green.  Then  a  cascade  of  fire  fell 
rushing  steadily  like  water,  for  some  minutes,  in  three 
sheets,  from  the  top  to  the  bottom  of  the  castle.  And  all 


118    CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE   CRANCH 

between  the  sights,  such  a  roar  of  cannon  and  rushing 
of  rockets  that  the  whole  sky  seemed  to  be  on  fire ! 

The  whole  show  was  on  such  an  immense  scale,  and  so 
perfectly  bewildering  in  its  beautiful  execution,  that  I 
thought  the  contriver  of  these  pyrotechnics  must  surely 
be  a  man  of  genius,  and  truly  deserving  the  name  of 
artist. 


CHAPTER  VII 

PALESTRINA  —  OLEVANO  —  SECOND  ROMAN 
WINTER 

THE  Autobiography  continues :  — 

Pales trina  (the  ancient  Prseneste)  is  an  old,  queer- 
looking  town  on  the  slope  of  a  pretty  steep  hill,  on  the 
top  of  which  stand  the  ruins  of  an  ancient  fortress. 

Our  landlady  is  a  fat,  jolly,  muscular  woman  who  has 
had  sixteen  children,  thirteen  of  whom  she  has  brought 
up,  and  are  in  the  house,  for  which  she  has  received  a 
pension  from  the  Papal  Government.  She  prides  herself 
greatly  on  her  hearty,  young,  and  plump  appearance, 
after  having  "made,"  as  the  Italians  say,  sixteen  chil 
dren.  And  well  she  may.  She  is  the  most  extraordinary 
woman  as  to  her  physique  I  ever  saw,  with  the  most 
jolly  expression  in  her  black  eyes,  and  her  fine  teeth,  all 
showing  as  she  smiles;  she  bounces  up  to  you,  and  bawls 
out  in  a  voice  which  would  be  at  the  top  of  the  lungs 
of  any  ordinarily  large  woman,  —  "E  bello,  quello  bam 
bino  suo!  E  bello!  Anche  e  bella  la  sposa.  Ma,  signore, 
io  fatto  sedice"  Then  away  she  sails  like  a  man-of-war, 
superintending  her  girls  in  the  kitchen,  scolding,  tasting, 
and  devising  all  manner  of  comfortable  things  for  her 
guests.  She  gives  us  excellent  fare  for  an  Italian  country 
town,  and  whatever  we  want  is  somehow  procured  for 
us.  And  the  generous  bottles  of  wine  are  enough  to  do 
one's  heart  good.  Her  eldest  daughter,  Carlotta,  is  a 
beauty,  and  promises  to  be  like  her  mother  one  of  these 
days.  All  the  family  seem  so  jolly  and  happy  and  ready 
to  oblige  that  it  is  a  striking  contrast  to  our  mean  fare 
at  Tivoli. 


120    CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 

From  Mr.  Cranch's  Journal :  — 

...  I  have  not  seen  any  place  that  combines  so  much 
a  landscape  painter  can  make  use  of  as  Tivoli.  There 
is  the  great  ravine  with  the  old  picturesque  town  over 
looking  it,  and  its  one  beautiful  relic  of  classic  times, 
the  Sibyl's  temple.  There  are  the  grottos,  the  deep, 
weird  chasms,  where  waterfalls  shoot  down  roaring,  as 
into  the  mouth  of  hell,  and  disappear  to  the  eyes.  There 
are  the  numerous  beautiful  cascades,  tumbling  and 
foaming  down  the  rocky  ravine;  the  old  rocks  them 
selves  on  which  the  town  stands,  looking  like  old  wormy 
cheese  or  petrified  pudding,  full  of  holes  and  caves,  out 
of  which  the  water  is  here  and  there  issuing,  after  going 
under  the  town.  There  are  the  beautiful  views  of  the 
Villa  of  Msecenas  and  the  distant  Campagna,  with  the 
dome  of  St.  Peter's  looming  up  on  the  far  horizon.  There 
is  the  Villa  d  'Este,  a  wonderful  old  place,  with  its  fanci 
ful  fountains  all  in  ruins,  and  its  magnificent  sombre 
cypresses,  the  most  beautiful  I  have  yet  seen. 

July  25.  Three  miles  from  Palestrina  we  pass  through 
Cavi,  an  exceedingly  picturesque  town.  We  left  the 
main  road  and  approached  it  along  a  high  bank  covered 
with  splendid  chestnuts.  The  town  and  mountains  be 
yond  were  beautiful  in  the  light  of  the  early  morning. 
Leaving  Cavi  we  approach  another  picturesquely  situ 
ated  town,  Genazano,  seven  miles  distant.  Leaving  it 
on  our  left,  we  walked  on,  the  mountains  growing  more 
bold  and  grand  in  their  forms,  and  by  a  long  winding  road 
arrived  at  Olevano,  lying  on  the  slopes  of  a  steep  rock; 
the  streets  and  stairs  are  narrower  and  dingier  than  any 
I  have  yet  seen.  A  fine  old  ruined  castle  overtops  the 
whole.  ...  At  Subiaco  I  spent  three  days.  I  visited  the 
old  Church  and  Convent  of  San  Benedetto,  high  up  on 
a  mountain  side  among  huge  gray  rocks  and  overlook- 


OLEVANO 

ing  a  deep  mountain  chasm.  An  old,  snuffy,  smiling 
friar  took  me  all  over  the  establishment.  The  church 
and  cloisters  are  very  ancient. 

From  Mrs.  Cranch's  Journal :  — 

Olevano,  September  12.  The  time  has  gone  so  quickly 
that  I  can  scarcely  believe  it  is  nearly  two  months  since 
I  last  wrote  here. 

Pearse  has  been  busy  with  the  mountains  and  trees, 
for  we  have  the  grandest  of  mountains  all  around  us. 
The  town  itself  is  built  upon  the  peak  of  a  mountain, 
and  the  scenery  has  been  the  study  of  landscape  painters 
for  hundreds  of  years.  We  have  two  Germans  and  one 
Belgian  in  our  locanda,  all  artists.  Yesterday  morning 
as  I  sat  at  the  window  sewing  on  one  of  Georgie's  little 
dresses,  and  admiring  the  distant  mountains,  it  was 
pleasant  to  think  of  so  many  artists  all  studying  around 
me.  There  were  the  Belgian  and  Pearse  seated  a  short 
distance  up  the  hill,  studying  a  horse,  with  two  Italian 
boys  holding  him;  Signor  Franz,  a  handsome,  blonde 
young  German,  off  among  the  mountains,  drawing  from 
the  grand  studies  around  him  subjects  for  his  illustra 
tions  of  scripture;  then  the  other  German,  Signor  Gu- 
lielmo,  in  the  studio  next  door,  painting  from  one  of  the 
fine  young  Italian  women.  The  two  American  painters, 
Ashton  and  Terry,  who  are  staying  at  the  other  house 
with  Banks  and  his  wife,  were  out  also  with  sketch  books 
in  hand.  A  locanda  above  us  on  the  hill  is  full  of  artists, 
mostly  German.  Our  little  Giorgio  has  been  sitting, 
or  rather  standing,  for  his  portrait  to  one  of  the  German 
artists.  He  goes  to  the  studio  and  stays  two  hours  at  a 
time,  playing  with  the  maul-stick,  while  the  German 
draws  him.  It  is  certainly  very  early  for  him  to  com 
mence  being  a  model,  but  I  would  like  him  to  be  in  a 


122    CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 

studio  early  in  life,  for  I  have  no  higher  ambition  for 
him  than  to  be  a  good  man,  and  an  artist,  should  he  show 
tendencies  that  way. 

The  winter  of  1847-48  we  passed  in  Rome  in  the  Via 
Sistina.  I  found  a  studio  near  by.1 

From  Mr.  Cranch's  Journal:  — 

From  my  studio- window  I  have  a  grand  view  of  Rome. 
The  house  stands  on  the  Pincio  in  the  Via  Gregoriana. 
Next  door  is  the  house  where  Salvator  Rosa  lived;  and 
a  few  doors  farther  lived  Claude  and  Poussin.  From  my 
window  to  the  South  I  see  St.  Peter's  and  the  Vatican 
towering  on  the  horizon.  Besides  this  dome  I  see  eleven 
or  twelve  other  smaller  ones,  and  cupolas  and  towers 
innumerable.  What  a  place  for  an  architect  is  Rome! 

At  my  right  the  horizon  terminates  in  Monte  Mario, 
in  front,  with  the  hill  of  San  Pietro  in  Montorio,  and  the 
beautiful  tall  pines  of  the  Villa  Pamfili  Doria.  On  my 
left  looms  up  the  tower  of  the  Capitol,  and  far  beyond 
these  is  a  little  glimpse  of  the  level  Campagna. 

I  walk  out,  and  wherever  I  go,  I  tread  upon  earth 
consecrated  by  the  footsteps  of  the  great  of  other  days. 
Near  me,  at  the  head  of  the  Spanish  stairs,  stands  the 
Church  and  Convent  of  Trinita  di  Monte,  where  is 
Daniele  di  Volterra's  Descent  from  the  Cross ;  and  where 
on  Sunday  twilights  the  secluded  nuns  sing  sweet  ves 
pers.  Descending  a  broad  flight  of  one  hundred  and 
thirty-two  steps  you  are  in  the  busy  and  fashionable 
Piazza  di  Spagna,  where  are  rich  bankers  and  ambassa 
dors,  and  great  hotels,  and  cafes,  and  white-gloved  Eng 
lish,  and  porters  and  pedlers  and  monks  and  costume- 
models,  and  dirty  children  and  fighting  dogs.  In  the 
1  Autobiography. 


SECOND  ROMAN  WINTER          123 

centre  the  boat-shaped  fountain  gushes  on,  —  night  and 
day  in  its  abundance  and  purity,  careless  of  all  the  mot 
ley  life.  At  one  end  of  the  Piazza  stands  the  huge  Prop 
aganda  College,  from  which  at  times  issue  troops  of 
students  clad  in  long  black  robes  and  solemnly  paraded 
two  by  two,  on  their  daily  walks.  At  the  other  end  you 
enter  the  Babuino,  and  follow  it  along  to  the  Piazza  del 
Popolo,  one  of  the  most  beautiful  squares  in  Europe,  with 
its  churches,  obelisk,  statues,  and  spouting  lions.  At  the 
end  is  the  Porta  del  Popolo  designed  by  Michael  Angelo. 

Passing  the  old  gate  and  turning  to  the  right  you  enter 
the  Villa  Borghese,  whose  gates  the  munificence  of  the 
prince  throws  open  daily  to  the  public.  Here  you  may 
saunter  for  hours  amid  fountains,  statues,  temples,  noble 
Italian  pines,  firs,  cypresses,  ilexes  and  oaks,  and  flower 
beds.  Here  go  the  entire  fashionable  world  in  gay  car 
riages;  yet  here  are  deep  green  secluded  retreats.  Here 
stands  the  Casino,  embowered  in  roses,  and  containing 
works  of  art.  Here  you  pass  Raphael's  house  and  the 
picturesque  little  Villa  Cenci  —  both  long  since  unten- 
anted  and  in  mournful  decay. 

Near  the  Borghese  is  the  old  deserted  Villa  Poniatow- 
ski.  Here  in  fine  weather  go  English  lady  tourists  to 
sketch,  and  landscape  painters  to  make  studies  of  the 
large  aloes  and  bits  of  garden  ornament  which  decorate 
the  place. 

And  now  let  us  return  by  the  gardens  of  the  Pincio  and 
the  Villa  Medici,  now  the  French  Academy,  the  public 
promenade  of  Rome.  Here  flows  all  the  tide  of  fashion 
in  the  sunny  afternoons.  Here  stroll  the  lazy  priests, 
here  lounge  the  young  city  beaus  and  belles;  here  roll 
the  shining  chariots  of  the  rich  forestieri,  with  livery  and 
lap  dogs;  here  come  the  nurses  with  babies  of  all  ages, 
who  romp  under  the  trees  and  over  the  smooth  gravel 


124     CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE   CRANCH 

bed  walks;  while  outside  the  gates  wait  the  beggars 
clamoring  for  mezzo-baiocchi.  And  all  the  while  a  fine 
band  discourses  lively  or  plaintive  music. 

From  the  Autobiography:  — 

In  the  winter  of  1848  Mr.  Charles  C.  Perkins,  of  Bos 
ton,  gave  occasional  musical  soirees  at  his  rooms;  we 
had  choice  programmes  from  the  great  German  com 
posers.  I  had  not  heard  anything  of  Beethoven  since  we 
left  America.  Among  the  Italians  there  seemed  to  be  a 
dearth  of  fine  music.  One  gets  tired  of  nothing  but  Verdi 
and  the  hymn  to  Pio  Nono.  It  was  absolutely  a  refresh 
ment  one  night  at  the  opera  to  listen  to  the  brilliant  but 
superficial  music  of  Rossini's  "Italiani  in  Algieri."  But 
at  Mr.  Perkins's,  we  had  the  waters  of  the  true  Helicon. 

One  evening  at  Tom  Hicks's  room,  I  truly  enjoyed 
myself  in  a  more  social,  though  less  elevated,  style.  By 
great  good  luck  there  were  four  of  us  who  sang  Moore's 
"Melodies."  We  had  also  glees  and  solos,  and  the  eve 
ning  passed  away  delightfully.  Social  meetings  will  never 
approach  perfection  till  the  greater  number  who  come 
together  can  join  musically  as  well  as  intellectually  and 
sympathetically. 

One  night  at  the  Apollo,  with  the  Storys,  we  went  to 
Verdi's  "Nebuchodonosor."  Some  parts  of  it  were  quite 
fine.  The  mise  en  scene  was  very  showy  —  but  the  music 
lacked  depth  and  feeling. 

I  enjoyed  the  festivities  of  the  Carnival  —  but  did  n't 
go  into  it  with  quite  the  furor  of  the  year  before.  With 
my  linen  blouse,  scarlet  neckhandkerchief  and  broad 
black  hat  looped  up  at  the  side  with  the  tricolored  cock 
ade  and  three  feathers,  I  joined  the  throng  in  the  crowded 
Corso  —  with  a  basket  of  bouquets  in  my  hand  and  a 
pocket  full  of  plaster  confetti  in  case  of  attack.  There 


SECOND  ROMAN  WINTER          125 

were  bright  eyes  and  handsome  faces  enough;  handsome 
dresses  too  and  grotesque  ones.  On  the  whole  I  had  a 
deal  of  fun. 

Twice  I  went  with  a  party  of  friends  to  see  the  gal 
lery  of  the  Vatican  by  torchlight.  These  divine  statues 
revealed  new  beauties  by  night,  which  were  hidden  in 
the  daylight.  We  seem  to  get  nearer  to  their  soul,  and 
to  the  genius  of  the  artist.  A  deeper,  more  subtle  beauty 
and  force  of  expression  breathed  from  these  still,  white, 
marble  forms. 

One  day  in  the  last  of  March,  Story  and  I  strolled  in 
the  deserted  Villa  Poniatowski.  The  day  was  beautiful 
and  perfectly  springlike.  Gigantic  aloes  grow  in  the 
grass.  Old  gray  mossy  steps  of  stone,  weather  beaten 
statues  and  obelisks  and  vases  lie  half  in  sunlight  and 
half  in  shadow  under  the  dark  pines  and  cypresses, 
through  whose  tops  the  wind  sighs  like  the  sea. 

Between  the  trees  are  glimpses  of  St.  Peter's,  and  the 
many  shining  domes  of  the  city,  all  glittering  in  the  sun. 
And,  afar,  Monte  Cavi,  Soracte,  and  the  beautiful  Sa- 
bine  Mountains  with  a  dark-blue,  soft  plum  color,  here 
and  there  covered  with  snow  of  a  dazzling  whiteness. 
Around  us,  as  we  lay  on  the  grass,  wild  roses  and  other 
flowers  bloomed,  and  bees  hummed,  and  butterflies 
flitted,  and  lizards  rustled,  and  birds  sang  and  flew.  Mid 
way  in  the  distance  were  patches  of  brown  earth,  newly 
ploughed,  and  delicate  green  trees  just  leafing  out,  and 
old  gray  houses  alone  in  the  fields;  and  against  the  blue 
Alban  Mount,  the  old  Roman  wall  and  the  old  cypresses 
of  the  Villa  Ludovisi,  made  a  picturesque  effect.  Were 
it  not  that  the  Italians  warn  us  against  exposure  to  a 
March  sun,  and  against  the  shade  of  the  moist  ground, 
one  might  be  tempted  to  lie  and  dream  hours  in  this 
lonely  old  place. 


126    CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE   CRANCH 

One  night  there  was  a  glorious  Moccoletli  on  the  day 
of  the  receipt  of  the  news  of  the  Viennese  Revolution. 
In  the  morning  the  bells  rang  and  cannon  and  musketry 
were  fired  for  several  hours.  The  whole  city  was  like  a 
carnival  for  joy.  The  Corso  was  crowded,  everybody 
wearing  tri-colored  cockades,  feathers  and  badges  and 
sprigs  of  box.  They  collected  in  large  numbers  about 
the  grim  old  Venetian  Palace,  the  residence  of  the  Aus 
trian  Ambassador  —  and  ascending  the  walls  with  a 
ladder,  tore  down  the  Austrian  arms  with  triumphant 
shouts,  threw  the  escutcheon  into  the  street  and  danced 
upon  it.  After  which  it  was  dragged  (by  a  donkey,  I  was 
told)  all  the  way  to  the  Piazza  del  Popolo,  and  publicly 
burned.  People  went  about  with  pieces  of  the  wood 
stuck  in  their  hat-bands.  In  the  evening  I  thought  I 
would  walk  into  the  Corso  to  see  what  was  going  on  — 
when  the  whole  blaze  of  the  Moccoletti  burst  at  once 
upon  me.  This  regular  finale  of  the  carnival  festivities 
had  been  omitted  at  the  regular  time,  in  consequence  of 
the  sympathy  of  the  Romans  with  the  future  of  the  Lom 
bards,  and  now  it  blazed  out  to  celebrate  the  prospect 
of  their  success.  I  never  saw  such  jubilant  joy  and  en 
thusiasm;  crowds  upon  crowds  singing  national  hymns, 
and  shouting,  and  all  holding  up  their  lights  —  others 
stemming  the  tide  in  carriages,  and  all  keeping  their 
lights  unquenched  —  none  offering  to  put  out  his  neigh 
bor's,  after  the  usual  custom. 

I  got  into  Perkins's  carriage,  and  after  looking  at  the 
scene  as  long  as  we  chose,  with  our  flaming  torches  in 
our  hands  we  drove  home  to  the  Pincio.  On  the  College 
of  the  Jesuits  they  wrote  Locanda  (to  let);  and  were 
hardly  restrained  from  doing  violence  to  the  premises. 

Young  George  William  Curtis  was  in  Germany 


SECOND  ROMAN  WINTER 

during  the  autumn  and  winter,  somewhat  home 
sick  for  Italy,  but  greatly  enjoying  German  music. 
Space  allows  us  to  give  but  scattered  extracts  from 
the  full  and  delightful  letters  he  sent  to  his  friends  in 
Rome:  — 

VIENNA,  October  26, 1847. 

I  am  head-full  and  heart-full  of  Jenny  Lind.  It  is  no 
longer  voice  and  vision  in  the  air,  but  a  star  and  flower 
in  my  memory.  ...  I  do  not  feel  that  she  would  be  un 
equal  to  the  grandest  parts.  She  is  naturally  an  artist. 
Her  acting  is  as  simple  and  natural  as  her  singing,  and 
that  is  the  most  wonderful  and  easiest  I  ever  thought 
of.  Her  voice  is  a  pure  soprano,  but  so  flexible,  so  sweet, 
so  strong,  so  keen,  it  is  wrought  into  such  magnificent 
elaborations  and  effects,  it  so  reels  and  soars  and  sways 
and  twinkles,  so  dies  into  softness,  like  a  star  melting 
in  darkness,  perfect  until  it  is  lost,  and  advances  again 
and  echoes  deepening  like  a  rushing  choir  of  swallows 
trembling  audibly  in  the  spring  morning,  that  I  thought 
at  once  how  she  was  something  not  different  in  degree 
only,  but  in  kind  from  any  artist  and  voice  I  ever 
knew.  . . . 

We  were  in  Dresden  and  the  passport  was  vised  for 
Vienna,  when  we  heard  by  mere  chance  in  a  German 
conversation  at  the  table  d'hote  that  she  was  in  Berlin. 
It  needed  but  an  hour  to  change  the  vises  and  to  be  off 
at  daybreak  for  Berlin,  where  she  was  to  sing  only  four 
nights,  and  had  already  sung  two.  We  arrived  while 
she  was  singing  the  third  night,  but  places  were  not. 
By  great  exertion  and  a  promise  of  any  price,  we  obtained 
good  places  for  her  last  night  and  a  benefit,  in  the  "Son- 
nambula,"  and  the  next  evening  in  a  concert,  which  was 
very  beautiful,  as  she  sang  an  air  of  Mozart's,  the  finale 


128    CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 

of  Weber's  "Euryanthe"  with  the  chorus,  and  a  Swedish 
song,  besides  several  others.  .  .  . 

I  have  never  before  seen  such  entire  nobility  in  the 
address  of  an  artist  to  an  audience.  There  was  not  the 
hint  or  shadow  of  claptrap,  no  bravuras  or  cadenzas, 
but  when  she  did  ornament  a  song  it  was  a  richness 
drawn  from  its  own  nature,  so  that  it  was  overflowed 
with  itself  —  it  was  steeped  in  beauty  as  great  as  its 
melody  —  not  hung  upon  it,  but  incorporated  with  it, 
so  that  the  audience  could  only  murmur  like  waves  re 
strained  by  a  fairy  wand.  And  when  at  the  close  the 
applause  rose  and  roared  around  her  she  smiled  quietly 
with  delight,  for  why  should  she  not  enjoy  her  exquisite 
power  and  the  delight  it  conferred? 

"  Can  such  things  be, 
And  overcome  us  like  a  summer  cloud, 
Without  our  special  wonder  ?  " 

For  this  is  one  of  the  overarching  joys  of  life  —  this  is 
that  morning  sky  and  Shelley's  skylark  who  sang  and 
soared  into  it.  May  you  one  day  know  what  it  is,  or  if 
not,  have  faith  that  the  same  genius  which  drew  us  to 
Rome  does  not  fail  of  another  expression  in  our  own 
day.  .  .  . 

BERLIN,  November  12,  1847. 

.  .  .  You  will  have  heard,  perhaps  before  now,  that 
Mendelssohn  is  dead,  —  the  great  balance  to  the  world 
of  music.  He  was  in  Leipzig  taken  a  little  sick  and  grew 
suddenly  worse  until  he  died  just  a  week  ago,  the  very 
day  on  which  he  was  to  have  brought  out  his  new  ora 
torio  "Elijah"  here.  It  will  be  brought  out  in  January. 
His  body  was  brought  from  Leipzig  to  Berlin  by  a  night 
train.  At  every  station  while  it  passed,  solemn  hymns, 
chiefly  of  his  own,  were  sung  around  the  coffin,  which 
presently  darted  off  with  flaring  torches  to  another  be- 


SECOND  ROMAN  WINTER          129 

wailing.  The  funeral  here  was  at  sunrise,  but  so  private 
that  I  did  not  know  of  it.  But  night  before  last  the  or 
chestra  of  the  Royal  Academy  gave  their  second  concert 
for  the  winter,  and  made  it  a  remembrance  and  requiem 
for  their  great  lover,  leader,  and  master.  The  concert 
commenced  with  the  funeral  march  from  Beethoven's 
"Heroic  Symphony,"  and  all  the  rest  was  made  up  of 
Mendelssohn's  music,  —  a  kyrie  eleison,  a  symphony, 
the  overture  to  the  "Midsummer  Night's  Dream,"  the 
"Forty-third  Psalm,"  the  overture  to  the  "Fingal's 
Cave,"  and  a  song.  I  may  call  it  the  most  perfect  in 
strumental  concert  I  ever  heard.  You  can  have  no  idea 
of  the  wonderful  unity  and  delicacy  of  the  performance, 
and  for  his  music  which  is  so  like  woven  gold  in  threads, 
it  was  entirely  satisfactory.  The  audience  was  immense 
and  utterly  silent.  There  was  no  applause,  not  a  single 
clap,  and  they  would  not  permit  the  rustling  of  a  dress 
or  a  bill  while  the  performance  was  proceeding.  The  last 
song  ended  in  this  way,  —  you  will  have  remarked  the 
exquisite  delicacy  of  the  whole  thing,  and  see  how  this 
seals  it,  — 

"Nun  musst  du  mich  auch  recht  versteh'n, 
Wenn  Menschen  auseinander  geh'n 
So  sagen  sie,  auf  Wiederseh'n,  —  auf  Wiederseh'n." 

Mendelssohn  was  yet  a  young  man,  only  thirty-eight 
years  old.  But  like  all  Germans  who  are  called  to  do  any 
thing,  he  did  it  while  it  was  day.  That  is  one  thing  I  feel 
so  strongly  this  side  of  the  Alps,  —  the  industry  and 
accuracy  of  all  work.  At  cafes  and  gardens  where  fine 
music  is  to  be  heard  the  broad-browed  fraus  sit  with 
their  knitting  and  the  grave  husband  sits  beside  smok 
ing  and  reading  the  paper  with  the  tankards  of  beer 
decreasing  in  most  conjugal  harmony.  And  how,  my 
dear  Xtopher,  condemned  to  silence  in  solemn  old  Rome, 


130    CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 

can  I  convey  to  you  the  knowledge  of  the  capital  which 
reeks  with  music?  Every  week  there  is  a  symphony 
concert  and  constantly  a  German  and  Italian  opera,  and 
every  night  also  quartettes,  trios,  overtures,  —  concerts 
in  the  small  way,  which  undertake  great  music  and  do  it 
well,  so  that  it  seems  as  if  I  must  be  nothing  but  ear 
and  soul  this  winter. 

Evening.  I  see  to-day  that  the  Trio  Company  will  give 
an  extra  concert  on  Monday  to  which  all  ticket-holders 
may  go,  for  the  purpose  of  playing  trios  of  Mendels 
sohn's,  and  so  to  show  their  respect  and  regard  for 
him.  Did  I  say  that  his  body  was  received  in  Berlin  at 
daybreak  by  a  company  who  went  down  to  the  station, 
singing  and  carrying  palm  branches?  They  preceded  it  to 
his  house  and  then  with  great  multitudes  of  people  and 
the  boys  and  girls  of  the  school  to  which  he  had  been 
specially  kind,  accompanied  to  the  grave,  where  at  sun 
rise  it  was  met  by  the  same  choir  whom  we  heard  the 
other  evening,  and  while  they  sang  one  of  his  own  hymns, 
it  was  laid  in  the  grave.  To-day  too  I  read  in  the  papers 
that  grey-headed  leaders  of  choirs  and  orchestras  came 
down  to  the  various  stations  upon  the  road,  and  weep 
ing  and  sobbing,  sang  dirges  in  the  cold  midnight  until 
the  train  disappeared.  I  remember  nothing  more  beau 
tiful  than  the  picture  of  these  old  servants  in  the  art 
rendering  such  sympathetic  reverence  and  regard  to  their 
dead  Master,  and  he  so  young  too. 

BERLIN,  Dec.  14,  1847. 

My  dear  Pearse,  drain  that  beaker  full  of  the  warm 
South  while  your  lips  are  at  the  goblet.  If  not  so  sweet 
and  wonderful  to  the  taste,  be  sure  that  when  the  wine 
and  the  cap  are  laid  away  in  the  dim  Treasury  of  Mem 
ory  all  that  seems  now  vague  and  only  half  delight,  will 


SECOND  ROMAN  WINTER          131 

come  out  into  the  perfect  form  of  pleasure  as  clouds  at 
sunset,  which,  as  they  grow  fainter  and  recede,  take  all 
wondrous  shapes  of  faerie  and  fame,  until  the  day  goes 
down  in  a  splendid  sky-Romance  and  History.  Yet 
Italy  adorns  Germany  as  the  Summer  the  Winter.  There 
is  nothing  new  or  picturesque,  and  the  Germans  are  so 
graceless  and  unhandsome  every  way,  that  the  day 
when  I  pass  a  girl  whom  I  wish  to  see  again  is  a  bright 
day  in  the  calendar.  While  I  am  housed  studying,  it  is 
well  eno',  but  when  I  step  out,  the  regular,  broad-streeted 
city  with  no  people  whom  I  care  to  see,  and  if  by  chance, 
the  want  of  a  good  opera  or  other  music  desolates  the 
evening.  These  things  make  me  foreign  and  cold  in  my 
turn.  Germany,  in  these  parts,  is  a  spiritual,  not  an 
external  world.  .  .  .  With  summer  and  more  acquaintance 
all  sorts  of  new  revelations  may  come. 

Behold  me  no  more  plain  Signor  Giorgio,  but  The  Well- 
Born  Philosophical  Student  Curtis!  That  is  my  present 
address  upon  all  shoe  and  other  bills.  For  I  have  passed 
the  Rubicon  of  German  matriculation  and  am  one  of  the 
two  thousand  regular  students  of  the  Berlin  University, 
and  as  I  am  neither  in  the  law  nor  theological  depart 
ments,  I  am  necessarily  philosophical,  which  is  the  only 
other.  But  have  no  fancies  of  him  who  whilom  basked 
in  Capri's  sun,  now  grappling  in  midnight  struggles 
with  Kant  or  Fichte  or  Hegel.  I  lead  my  flocks  of  phil 
osophical  research  by  the  still  waters  of  Professor  Rit- 
ter's  lectures  upon  Universal  Geography  and  those  of 
Professor  Gelzer  upon  German  literature.  These  at 
present,  while  I  do  not  so  well  understand,  —  others  by 
and  by.  Ritter  I  can  follow  entirely,  and  really  get 
much  news  from  what  he  says.  His  theme  is  the  His 
tory  of  the  Knowledge  of  the  Earth  from  the  first  beams 
of  breaking  light  upon  that  subject.  This  leads  him  into 


132    CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 

all  the  Oriental  ideas  of  the  earth  —  by  illustration  — 
to  the  expedition  of  the  Argonauts  and  such  things  — to 
Strabo  and  Ptolemaus,  to  all  the  Grecian  theories,  and 
so  we  march  majestically  forward  from  darkness  to 
light.  But  it  is  a  most  picturesque  and  attractive  dark 
ness.  The  complete  theory  of  the  Indians  that  the  lotus 
flower  was  the  symbol  of  the  earth,  the  vague  fancies 
of  the  Greeks,  the  eminence  of  poor,  old,  dear  Egypt, 
seem  to  have  a  deeper  interest  because  they  are  spoken 
of  in  a  language  from  which  I  can  just  extricate  them. 
I  am  pleased  with  my  progress. 

BERLIN,  February  6,  1848. 

.  .  .  Since  Christmas  there  has  been  most  solemn  calm 
in  Berlin.  Have  I  mentioned  what  a  quiet,  provincial 
town  it  is,  laid  out  in  broad,  regular  streets,  as  unhand 
some  and  graceless  as  the  dear,  clumsy,  semi-disgusting 
and  semi-sublime  Germans.  No  balconies  and  roofs 
and  doorways,  no  meaningless  beams  and  juts,  which 
make  up  the  picturesqueness  of  the  stillest  Italian  town; 
and  although  a  metropolis,  no  air  of  any  sort,  no  fine 
equipages,  no  fine  stores,  no  fine  houses,  nothing  which 
becomes  a  great  city  except  a  magnificent  group  of  build 
ings  at  the  end  of  one  spacious,  tree-planted  street,  and 
except  the  unequalled  music  and  the  University.  It  lies 
on  a  great  plain,  a  vast  city  of  more  than  400,000  peo 
ple,  but  far  less  beautiful  and  busy  and  gay  than  Naples 
or  Milan  or  Vienna,  or  even  Munich. 

But  this  is  only  Berlin,  and  not  Germany.  Sometimes 
I  have  a  vague  fear  that  our  Germany,  that  which  we 
have  known  and  loved  in  books,  is  nowhere  to  be  found. 
.  .  .  Now  and  then  a  face,  a  little  talk,  a  scene  in  a  pub 
lic  garden  recalls  some  strain  of  the  German  song,  but 
the  great  universal  life  does  not  yet  do  it. 


SECOND  ROMAN  WINTER          133 

Last  night  we  went  to  a  beautiful  performance  of 
Schlegel's  translation  of  the  "Midsummer  Night's 
Dream,"  with  Mendelssohn's  exquisite,  shall  I  dare  to 
say,  equal  music,  and  the  Puck  was  most  delicately 
done  by  a  girl  who  resembled  the  water  nymphs,  who 
in  Kaulbach's  illustration  of  Goethe's  Fisher,  push 
aside  the  river  rushes  and  look  out  from  under  their 
heavy,  weird  brows  in  glances  full  of  elfish  and  wonder 
ful  beauty.  In  the  same  place  we  have  seen  Goethe's 
"Iphigenie"  and  Sophocles'  "Antigone"  played  before 
the  King  and  court  with  all  the  music  of  Mendelssohn 
again,  and  arranged  in  the  pure  Grecian  style,  the  cur 
tain  going  down  instead  of  up  and  the  chorus  ascending 
in  front  of  the  stage,  and  there  surrounding  the  altar. 
...  I  have  heard  Garcia  a  great  deal.  She  is  a  pleas 
ing,  but  by  no  means  a  great  singer.  Her  talent  is  very 
versatile.  I  have  heard  her  in  "Norma"  and  "Rosina" 
and  the  "Iphigenie"  of  Gluck  and  Bellini's  "Mon- 
tecchi  and  Capuletti,"  —  in  which  she  was  Romeo  — 
and  "Don  Juan,"  and  Halvy's  "Jewels."  She  is  very 
good  in  all,  a  perfect  mistress  of  the  stage  with  a  voice 
that  is  not  very  powerful  nor  very  sweet,  but  elaborately 
cultivated,  and  in  gay  Spanish  songs  very  fascinating. 
She  is  exceedingly  homely. 

Gluck's  "Iphigenie"  was  a  new  thing,  though  one  of 
the  oldest  of  operas.  It  is  an  imposing,  majestic  work. 
The  music  flows  on  in  a  steady,  solemn  stream  like  lyrical 
church  music,  rarely  breaking  into  tunes,  but  never 
falling  into  dry  recitative.  An  elderly  gentleman  sat 
by  me  entranced.  During  the  acts  he  said,  "I  suppose 
you  have  never  heard  this."  I  replied  no,  and  expressed 
my  pleasure,  and  his  eyes  fairly  glistened  as  he  smiled 
and  said,  "Ach,  Gott,  mein  Herr,  wenn  man  diese  Musik 
liebt  so  hat  man  einen  wahr  geschmach  in  Musik."  Then 


134    CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 

he  fell  to  telling  me  stories  of  Gluck,  —  what  a  religious 
man  he  was  in  music,  how  I  might  in  this  opera  have 
some  idea  of  a  style  of  religious  music  now  quite  unknown. 
Indeed,  there  was  a  strong  feeling  of  the  Germany  which 
we  anticipate,  in  the  genial,  gentle  conversation  of  the 
old  gentleman. 

BERLIN,  March  5,  1848. 

I  sent  you  a  letter  telling  of  our  revolution,  and  could 
I  have  detained  it  an  hour,  it  should  have  told  you  also 
of  the  end;  for  as  I  returned  from  mailing  it,  I  passed 
the  palace  at  which  the  arming  of  the  citizens  was  al 
ready  taking  place.  Three  nights  in  the  three  capitals 
of  Europe  have  sufficed  to  establish  in  form  the  govern 
ment  of  popular  intelligence,  as  it  already  existed  in  fact; 
or  a  night  apiece  to  France,  Prussia,  and  Austria  could 
not  have  done  the  business  [better].  We  have  been 
through  all  the  stages  —  the  solemn  burial  of  the  dead, 
which  were  here  numbered  by  hundreds;  the  illumina 
tions;  the  appearance  of  the  King  with  the  tricolor,  the 
gold,  red,  and  black  of  Germany  which  floated  over  the 
barricades  during  that  tremendous  night.  The  libera 
tion  of  the  Polish  prisoners,  and  the  hurrahs,  the  dis 
turbance;  and,  unlike  Paris,  the  immediate  return  to  the 
old  appearance  of  things,  except  the  enormous  numbers 
of  soldiers.  They  are  all  gone  —  even  the  gens  d'armes 
and  the  Berlin  lieutenants  have  left  none  but  melan 
choly  traces.  In  the  midst  of  the  mangled  and  horrible 
corpses,  which  were  exposed  last  Sunday,  lay  one  young 
man,  an  officer,  clad  in  his  handsome  military  suit,  his 
hands  folded  upon  his  breast,  his  light,  curling  hair  wav 
ing  in  the  wind,  with  no  gash  or  scar,  and  a  calm  smile 
upon  his  marble  face.  These  are  the  things  that  make 
one  willing  to  die;  and  try  if  elsewhere  the  order  of  life 


SECOND  ROMAN  WINTER          135 

is  not  more  delicate.  This  Prussian  military  monarchy 
fell  in  a  night,  and  will  have  few  relics.  I  know  many 
young  officers  who  have  now  nothing  to  do.  The  Burgher 
guard  alone  hold  the  arms  and  the  city.  The  King  wished 
to  abdicate,  but  they  will  retain  him  chained  to  his 
throne.  "Leave  to  the  royal  race  the  golden  throne," 
says  the  most  revolutionary  song  I  have  seen.  Every 
one  wears  a  national,  German,  not  Prussian,  cockade, 
and  the  same  tricolored  flag  hangs  upon  every  house. 

The  press,  suddenly  perfectly  free,  leaps  and  rejoices 
in  its  power.  Nothing  proves  to  me  so  strongly  the  in 
telligent,  popular  feeling  in  Europe  as  the  ease  with 
which  such  entire  political  earthquakes  are  endured. 

A  war  with  Russia  is  now  the  only  fear.  But  it  will  be 
a  war  waged  by  Russia,  not  against  Prussia  and  Austria 
alone,  but  against  all  Europe.  For  the  events  of  the 
months  have  shown  Europeans  that  they  are  really 
friends  and  brothers.  In  the  midst  of  such  events  I  have 
the  keenest  interest,  but  it  is  not  weighty  enough  to  en 
croach  farther  here.  .  .  . 


CHAPTER  VIII 

NAPLES SORRENTO 

FROM  Mr.  Cranch's  Journal:  — 

On  April  12,  1848,  we  set  out  on  our  journey,  travel 
ling  by  vettura,  .  .  .  and  on  the  morning  of  the  fourth  day 
we  arrived  in  Naples.  We  took  rooms  at  28  Santa  Lucia, 
overlooking  the  sea.  The  whole  Bay  and  Vesuvius  hung 
like  a  great  picture,  always  before  us.  The  mountain 
was  as  quiet  as  a  sleeping  child;  a  light,  slow-moving 
wreath  of  white  smoke  hardly  distinguishable  from  a 
cloud,  issued  from  the  cone  and  crawled  along  the  top 
of  the  mountain.  In  the  evening  I  looked  for  some  fiery 
light  about  the  top,  but  there  was  only  one  dull  red  spot, 
probably  from  the  lava,  like  the  red  half-opened  eye  of 
a  lion  in  the  dark.  Nothing  could  exceed  the  beauty,  for 
form  and  color,  of  the  whole  mountain  coast;  and  the 
Island  of  Capri  in  the  south,  bathed  in  the  rosiest  sun 
set  light;  the  shores  on  the  coast  all  studded  with  white 
towns  and  scattered  houses. 

April  18.  Last  night  I  ascended  Vesuvius  with  two 
or  three  companions.  We  started  between  ten  and 
eleven  in  a  comfortable  carriage  with  three  horses,  which 
took  us  through  Portici  and  Resina  up  as  far  as  the 
Hermitage.  It  was  a  glorious,  cloudless,  full  moonlight. 
At  the  Hermitage  we  had  a  fire  made;  for  we  were  chilled 
through.  And  with  bread,  cheese,  salame  and  cigars, 
and  above  all  some  bottles  of  white  Lagrima  Cristi,  we  all 
grew  very  merry  and  sang  "Suona  la  tromba"  and  the 
"Marseillaise"  with  great  effect. 

As  soon  as  it  was  daylight  we  commenced  the  ascent, 


NAPLES  137 

all  the  way  on  foot  from  the  Hermitage.  We  were  helped 
up  the  toilsome  ascent  of  the  cone  by  the  guides.  I  was 
up  before  any  of  the  others,  and  in  full  time  to  see  the 
reddening  of  the  east  and  the  sunrise.  What  a  wild,  bleak 
mountain  solitude  was  spread  around  us!  In  the  dis 
tance  the  eye  took  in  the  great  panorama  of  hills  and 
valleys  and  sea  coast  and  sea,  and  fruitful  plains  and 
smiling  villages,  dotting  with  white  the  vast  green  ex 
panse  around,  over  which  the  thinnest  white  veil  of 
morning  mist  was  lingering,  making  it  seem  like  a  vast 
ethereal  lake. 

But  it  was  the  scene  immediately  beneath  and  around 
us,  that  attracted  and  absorbed  us  most. 

Here  we  were  walking  over  the  hot  heaps  of  broken 
scoria  and  lava,  occasionally  crossing  crevices  and  great 
gaping  seams  where  the  red  fire  skulked,  and  into  which 
we  poked  our  sticks  and  drew  them  out  blazing.  Frag 
ments  of  the  volcanic  deposit  of  all  colors,  sulphur,  cop 
per,  iron  and  what  not,  lay  all  around.  Sometimes  we 
would  step  on  a  bed  of  lava,  quite  hard,  but  which  seemed 
to  have  suddenly  congealed  in  its  quiet  motion,  before 
it  had  time  to  wrinkle  into  the  fantastic  forms  which 
distinguish  such  large  quantities  of  the  lava.  Mr.  D. 
and  I  ascended,  unhelped  of  guides,  the  upper  cone,  - 
and  leaned  over  the  very  brink,  where  the  mephitic 
smoke  and  exhalations  steamed  up  in  our  faces,  almost 
taking  away  our  breath.  It  was  unusually  quiet.  But 
there  came  one  gush  of  smoke  which  warned  us  to  back 
out  and  descend  from  this  foul  mouth  of  the  Inferno. 

It  was  comfortable  to  warm  ourselves,  chilled  by  the 
cold  mountain  wind,  in  this  black  old  sulphur-kitchen 
of  Satan.  I  felt  corporeally  as  a  sinner  might  be  expected 
to  feel  spiritually,  attracted  and  made  easy  within,  as 
I  lingered  in  the  precincts  of  this  Hell. 


138    CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE   CRANCH 

Sudden  and  swift  was  our  descent,  with  gravel  and 
stones  rolling  down  with  us  and  filling  our  shoes,  —  swift 
as  our  ascent  was  painful  and  slow.  From  the  valley  at 
the  bottom  of  the  great  cone,  how  desolate  and  grand 
towered  up  the  bare  cliffs  on  the  right!  It  was  like  the 
Valley  of  Diamonds  in  Sindbad  the  Sailor. 

April  21.  Surely  it  is  some  visionary  realm  that 
stretches  off  yonder  over  the  sea!  A  long  dark  cloud 
hangs  over  Vesuvius  and  reaches  to  the  mountains  of  the 
coast.  But  the  moon  has  struggled  through,  rising  and 
treading  down  the  black  bars  of  her  cloud-prison,  and 
flinging  wide  open  her  dungeon  doors,  floods  the  sky 
with  soft  dreamy  light,  and  paves  a  long  pathway  on 
the  waves.  A  single  fisher's  boat,  lit  by  red  torchlight, 
dances  across  the  bright  spangles  of  the  water.  Nothing 
is  heard  of  all  the  noises,  that  in  the  bright  day  come  up 
from  the  Chiaja,  —  only  the  dash  of  the  waves  rejoic 
ing  in  the  moonbeams. 

.  .  .  An  American  frigate,  the  United  States,  has  been 
lying  for  some  time  at  anchor  in  the  bay.  Yesterday  she 
sailed  for  Messina. 

I  went  aboard  of  her,  and  was  struck  with  the  fault 
less  finish  and  completeness  of  all  her  parts.  .  .  .  The 
officers  were  very  gentlemanly  and  obliging.  We  sat 
and  took  wine  and  talked  politics  with  them.  After 
which  we  sat  some  time  in  the  old  Commodore's  room. 
He  is  a  true  type  of  an  American  commander.  Speaking 
of  the  state  of  Europe,  this  hard,  practical,  shrewd  old 
gentleman  said,  that  no  one  would  ever  have  predicted 
the  Viennese  Revolution:  that  the  heart  of  Austria  was 
the  very  last  place  to  look  for  such  an  event.  I  thought 
how  Emerson  would  have  seized  upon  this  expression  of 
opinion  from  such  a  man.  For  what  things  can  we  put 
faith  in  when  the  belief  of  such  a  shrewd  and  old-fash- 


NAPLES  139 

ioned  practitioner  is  swept  away  by  such  an  event?  The 
subtle,  undermining  spirit  is  never  extinct;  and  let  no 
man  think  the  wit  of  the  universe  can  be  stifled,  any 
more  than  the  fire  of  a  volcano.  We  all  live  on  a  centre 
crust  of  the  world.  Within,  underneath  our  feet  lies 
the  limitless  realm  of  the,  as  yet,  impossible  beliefs  and 
facts.  .  .  . 

Along  the  Riviera  di  Chiaja,  a  beautiful  broad,  clean 
street  lying  on  the  bay,  are  some  of  the  finest  houses! 
Passing  these  you  come  to  the  Villa  Reale,  a  pleasant 
green  promenade  decorated  with  some  good  statues, 
copies  in  marble  from  the  antique.  Outside  the  left- 
hand  wall  of  the  garden  lies  the  beach,  with  picturesque 
fishermen  in  their  boats,  and  the  waves  breaking  upon 
the  sand.  And  over  the  sea  you  look  off  to  Capri,  re 
markable  for  the  beauty  of  its  outlines,  and  at  sunset 
its  magic  colors.  In  the  distance  the  prettiest  sails  are 
skimming  always  over  the  waters.  Nothing  can  exceed 
the  beauty  of  the  color  on  the  sea,  the  most  delicate 
emerald  green  alternating  with  purple,  the  latter  being 
caused  by  the  shadows  of  the  silver  clouds.  In  America 
they  would  say  if  these  colors  were  painted,  —  "It  is 
not  natural,"  as  Europeans  would  say  of  our  autumnal 
tints. 

April  29.  To-day  we  have  seen  Pompeii;  and  it  has 
fully  equalled  if  not  surpassed,  my  anticipations.  Dickens 
speaks  of  this  "city  disinterred"  as  solemn  and  gloomy. 
To  me  it  seemed  cheerful  and  bright.  It  was  the  love 
liest  of  spring  days.  And  all  through  the  deserted  streets 
and  ruined  houses  and  temples  breathed  the  sweet 
breath  of  spring  flowers,  and  all  around  in  the  distance 
slept  the  dreamy  mountains.  Then  all  was  so  secluded 
and  still;  no  fashionable  loungers,  no  curious  tourists, 
no  squalid  beggars  to  mar  the  wholeness  of  the  impres- 


140    CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 

sion.  It  is  a  place  for  a  poet  to  dream  in  days  and  days. 
The  houses,  though  all  open  to  the  day,  seemed  sacred 
and  inviolate.  The  graceful  paintings  on  the  walls  of 
the  chambers,  the  beautiful  mosaic  floors  and  fountains, 
the  statues  and  bas-reliefs  seemed  so  fresh  and  unhack 
neyed,  as  if  waiting  for  us  alone  to  see  them. 

How  beautiful  and  unbroken  and  unscathed  by  the 
fiery  cinders  which  once  overwhelmed  them  and  hid 
them  for  centuries,  stood  these  fresh  tiles  and  shining 
marbles  and  warm  frescoes!  Here  are  the  dreams  of 
the  architect,  the  poet,  the  painter,  the  sculptor,  vivid, 
as  of  old.  ...  As  we  passed  along  the  narrow  streets, 
marked  with  the  ancient  ruts  of  their  chariot-wheels, 
and  peeped  among  the  ruined  walls,  I  could  almost  fancy 
that  some  classically  draped  figure  would  steal  by;  some 
garlanded  priest  with  hoary  beard,  some  centurion  with 
shining  armor  and  crisp  black  locks  underneath  his 
proud  helmet;  some  Grecian-looking  maiden,  bearing 
an  antique  water-vase  on  her  head.  It  was  hardly  con 
ceivable  that  all  was  so  old.  We  seemed  to  be  trans 
ported  far  back  into  those  antique  times.  And  who  could 
look  up  to  that  mountain  now  so  quiet  and  grave,  with 
its  smoke  scarcely  perceptible  floating  up  in  that  bluest 
and  serenest  sky,  and  around  on  the  smiling  gardens 
and  vineyards  at  its  feet,  and  realize  that  there  was 
the  unquenchable  fountain  of  fire  and  desolation  which 
deluged  all  this  vast  space !  And  this  was  Pompeii !  And 
yet  we  see  one  quarter  of  the  buried  city.  Underneath 
these  hills  and  vineyards  sleep,  and  for  so  many  centu 
ries  have  slept,  more  beauty  and  splendor,  more  rare  and 
curious  works  of  art,  than  have  yet  been  excavated. 
Lovely  yet  fearful  site  for  a  city,  —  girt  by  the  moun 
tains  and  the  sea;  but  brooding  and  gloating  over  it  the 
fiery  eyes  of  Vesuvius.  On  one  side  smiled  on  by  volup- 


NAPLES  141 

tuous  love,  and  on  the  other  scowled  on  by  the  deadly 
frowns  of  rage  and  treacherous  hate.  Singular  has  been 
the  fascination  and  terrible  the  destiny  of  these  cities 
and  villages  which  have  flocked  around  the  fires  of  the 
destroying  mountain:  like  moths  around  a  lamp  they 
have  come  and  been  consumed,  one  after  another.  And 
still  they  sit  there  under  the  spell  of  the  evil  genius,  dar 
ing  the  fate  of  their  sisters  of  old. 

One  of  the  most  remarkable  things  about  Pompeii 
is  the  perfect  freshness  and  stainlessness  of  everything 
excavated.  The  whole  city  seems  to  have  been  embalmed, 
as  if  the  flowers  and  shrubs  which  grow  in  and  over  the 
walls  had  done  their  part  in  preserving  it  sweet  and  clean. 
There  is  nothing  of  the  damp  and  mouldy  smell  which 
lurks  about  the  ruins  of  Rome.  The  lava  and  ashes  and 
scoria  of  the  mountain  have  kept  all  dry  and  uncor- 
rupted.  This  seems  to  take  away  half  the  sense  of  desola 
tion,  since  we  are  assured  that  still  underneath  this 
light  soil  all  the  rest  of  the  unsunned  treasures  lie  so  well 
preserved. 

Naples  did  not  impress  me  as  a  moral  city.  Nor  was 
there  any  reason  why  it  should.  From  the  King  down 
to  the  lazzaroni  it  seemed  to  be  all  the  same.  I  never 
could  go  into  a  crowd  without  losing  a  pocket  handker 
chief.  The  only  time  I  ever  saw  "Bomba,"  the  unpopu 
lar  Bourbon  King,  was  one  day  as  I  was  passing  the 
royal  palace.  A  curious  but  unapplauding  crowd  was 
gathered  around  the  gates;  and  a  stout  gentleman  puff 
ing  at  a  cigar  came  out,  unattended,  and  got  into  a  gig 
to  take  a  drive.  "Who  is  it"?  I  asked  a  bystander.  It 
was  curious  to  see  his  look  and  the  shrug  of  his  shoulders, 
as  he  answered,  "II  Re"! 


142    CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 

Margaret  Fuller  to  Mrs.  Cranch 

ROME,  14th  May,  1848. 

I  received  your  note  some  three  weeks  since,  and  was 
rejoiced  to  find  all  had  gone  so  well  with  you.  But  for 
tune  favors  the  brave.  I  had  half  thought  to  salute  you 
this  week  in  person,  being  extremely  tempted  to  accom 
pany  the  Storys,  but  on  the  whole  could  not  make  the 
expedition  fit  all  inward  and  outward  demands  of  the 
present  hour.  .  .  . 

You  know,  I  suppose,  that  we  have  had  great  trouble 
at  Rome,  and  how  Pio  has  disappointed  the  enthusiasm 
he  roused.  It  is  a  sad  affair.  Italy  was  so  happy  in  lov 
ing  him,  and  the  world  in  seeing  one  man  high  placed, 
who  became  his  place  and  seemed  called  to  it  by  God. 
But  it  is  all  over.  He  is  the  modern  Lot's  wife,  and  now 
no  more  a  living  soul,  but  cold  pillar  of  the  past.  .  .  . 

From  Mr.  Cranch's  Autobiography:  — 

Sorrento.  .  .  .  We  left  Naples  May  4,  in  the  boat  of 
old  Rafaello  the  Mariner,  and  with  a  fair  wind  scudded 
across  the  bay  to  Sorrento.  We  have  taken  the  second 
story  of  a  little  place  on  the  Piano  di  Sorrento,  called 
the  Villa  di  Angelis,  in  one  of  the  most  lovely  and  roman 
tic  spots  that  could  be  found.  We  enter  a  gate  and  pass 
into  an  orange  orchard,  where  the  thick  green  branches 
darken  the  sky  overhead,  and  bend  down  to  the  rich 
earth,  laden  with  their  golden  fruit.  Beautiful  white 
orange-blossoms  everywhere  are  interspersed  with  these 
and  load  the  air  with  rich  perfume.  Indeed,  the  whole 
of  Sorrento  seems  like  one  immense  plantation  of  orange 
and  lemon  trees,  shut  in  by  high  walls.  Within  the  orange 
grove  where  we  are,  is  a  garden  of  roses  and  geraniums, 
and  a  few  olive-trees  and  oaks.  And  here  stands  the 
Casino  —  the  little  villa  which  is  our  summer  home. 


SORRENTO  143 

And  all  this  hangs  right  over  the  sea,  a  hundred  feet  be 
low.  From  a  dear  little  terrace,  on  a  level  with  our  rooms, 
we  look  down  over  roses  and  elder  blooms  and  vines  to 
the  smoothest  beach  ever  washed  by  the  salt  waves, 
hemmed  in  and  guarded  by  high  precipitous  tufa  rocks. 

The  whole  Bay  of  Naples  lies  stretched  before  us.  To 
the  right,  Vesuvius  towers  up  shrouded  in  mystery  and 
beauty.  Opposite,  the  gleaming  city,  and  the  heights 
of  Camaldoli.  Farther  along,  in  the  distance,  the  prom 
ontory  of  Misene,  Nisida,  Baia,  and  the  blue  isles  of 
Procida  and  Ischia;  all  between,  the  beautiful  wide 
Mediterranean  rolling  towards  us,  till  it  dashes  in  surf 
below. 

It  is  a  lovely  spot.  The  house  too  is  so  tidy  and  clean 
and  commodious.  What  a  contrast  to  the  noise  and  glare 
of  Naples! 

The  people  of  Sorrento  also  seem  more  gentle,  well- 
behaved,  and  handsome  than  in  any  other  place  of  Italy 
we  have  been  in.  On  the  beach  below,  picturesque  Nea 
politan  fishermen  draw  in  their  nets,  and  bring  us  fresh 
fish  almost  every  morning.  We  have  large  delicious 
bunches  of  grapes  brought  to  us,  now  and  then.  And 
our  oranges,  said  to  be  the  best  in  Sorrento,  are  an  un 
failing  feast. 

One  day  I  made  an  excursion  with  some  friends  to  the 
Island  of  Capri.  But  we  only  had  time  to  visit  the  Blue 
Grotto.  Nothing  could  be  more  weird  and  elfin  than 
this  singular  cavern  of  the  sea.  Through  an  opening 
just  wide  enough  to  admit  a  very  small  boat,  with  two 
persons  and  the  oarsman,  and  so  low  that  you  are 
obliged  to  lie  down  in  the  boat,  you  are  suddenly  borne 
by  a  wave  into  the  cavern,  whose  interior  is  of  a  pallid 
blue.  The  water  also  is  blue,  but  exquisite  and  clear  as 
crystal,  so  that  you  see  the  fishes  at  a  great  depth  all 


144    CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE   CRANCH 

tinged  with  the  azure.  The  water  is  said  to  be  sixty  fathom 
deep.  It  seemed  like  the  dwelling  of  some  Sea-King  or 
Siren.  We  all  looked  like  ghosts  crossing  the  Styx.  We 
sang  and  shouted  and  made  the  arches  and  dim,  dark 
recesses  of  the  sea-cave  answer  us  in  echoes. 

May  18.  Naples  has  been  torn  and  convulsed  by  a  day 
of  sanguinary  civil  war.  They  have  had  hard  and  des 
perate  fighting  between  the  Royal  troops  on  one  side, 
and  on  the  other,  the  Civic  Guard,  assisted  by  about 
three  hundred  Calabrians,  who,  it  is  said,  fought  with 
the  desperation  of  tigers.  The  King  having  refused  the 
people's  demand  for  the  abolition  of  the  Chamber  of 
Peers,  the  Civic  Guard  immediately  erected  barricades 
in  the  streets  and  put  themselves  in  a  defensive  attitude. 
This  was  Sunday  night,  May  13.  At  eleven  next  morning 
the  attack  was  commenced.  The  first  firing  was  from 
the  Guard  upon  the  Swiss  who  attempted  to  take  their 
barricades.  The  battle  then  went  on.  The  Swiss  Guard 
from  the  Castel  Nuovo  shot  down  every  one  who  ap 
peared  in  the  streets.  Shots  were  fired  constantly  be 
tween  the  windows  of  houses  and  the  streets.  The  shops 
and  houses  were  all  closed.  The  lazzaroni  went  about 
in  large  herds  plundering  and  shouting  for  the  strongest 
party.  The  battle  did  not  cease  till  two  in  the  morning. 
This  was  the  substance  of  what  Mr.  Rogers  brought 
from  the  city.  Two  or  three  palaces  are  said  to  have 
been  burned,  and  a  large  number  of  soldiers  killed.  Of 
the  Civic  Guard,  many  were  made  prisoners. 

Of  all  this  fiery  and  bloody  work,  we,  in  this  peaceful 
retreat,  knew  nothing.  It  was  a  warm,  quiet  day,  and 
from  our  little  home,  embowered  in  roses  and  orange 
trees,  and  looking  down  on  the  beach,  where  the  waves 
crept  in  so  sleepily,  and  then  off  to  the  opposite  shore, 
where  the  great  city  and  all  the  neighboring  towns  slept, 


SORRENTO  145 

white  and  dim  in  the  distance,  —  all  seemed  tranquil 
as  a  dream.  No  one  could  have  imagined  that  war  and 
bloodshed  were  going  on  there.  And  though  all  day 
we  heard  the  booming  of  cannon,  I  thought  it  only  the 
manifestation  of  some  popular  festive  rejoicing.  From 
the  seclusion  of  our  little  villa,  we  seemed  to  look  out 
upon  the  agitations  of  the  city,  as  from  the  shores  of  an 
other  world. 

June  4-  Sunday  evening  our  daughter  Leonora1  was 
born.  The  event  was  celebrated  by  the  greatest  giran- 
dola  which  Vesuvius  has  got  up  since  1838.  On  that 
evening  the  eruption  was  at  its  culmination,  —  the 
streaming  of  the  lava  down  the  sides  of  the  cone  was 
particularly  beautiful. 

July  5.  At  Amalfi  G.  F.  Cropsey  and  I  established 
ourselves  at  the  "Luna,"  immediately  on  the  beach. 
Here  we  had  a  fine  chance  to  study  boats  and  groups 
of  fishermen,  —  boys  and  girls  half  naked  browning 
themselves  in  the  sun  x>r  splashing  like  frogs  in  the 
water,  —  friars,  beggars,  etc.  Above  the  town  tower  up 
enormous  mountains.  .  .  .  Here  we  found  a  succession  of 
pictures  waiting  to  be  painted.  But  our  limited  time, 
though  we  made  the  best  use  of  it,  obliged  us  to  select  a 
very  few  scenes.  As  you  approach  the  upper  part  of  the 
glen,  the  mountains  are  wonderfully  grand  and  solemn: 
steep,  splintered,  precipitous,  many  of  them,  and  loom 
ing  up  in  a  hazy  mysterious  shadow  as  the  sun  declines 
behind  them,  and  rising  to  an  immense  height. 

1  Indeed  no  name  [referring  to  Leonora  d'  Este,  the  princess  to 
whom  was  dedicated  Tasso's  verse,  Sorrento  being  his  birthplace] 
could  be  beautiful  enough  to  match  the  beauty  of  this  place.  The 
spirits  of  the  sea,  the  most  transparent  of  all  seas,  laving  the  purple 
bases  of  the  tall  rocks,  of  the  blue  island  and  mountains,  of  the 
green,  orange  and  olive  grove,  and  the  roses  and  the  grape  vines 
that  embower  it  around,  should  breathe  their  subtlest  beauties  into 
her  name. 


146    CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 

But  sad  and  disheartening  is  the  contrast  between  na 
ture  and  humanity  here.  The  town  is  a  sink  of  filth  and 
squalor  and  wretchedness  —  more  abounding  in  dark 
narrow  dirty  lanes  leading  up  steep  stairs  and  under 
pitch-dark  arches  and  caves,  and  the  Lord  knows  what 
miserable  holes,  too  vile  for  the  very  swine  (which  by  the 
way  fare  much  better,  being  washed^by  the  sweet  sea- 
water  and  walking  about  in  the  free  air)  and  in  every 
token  of  degradation  worse  than  any  Italian  town  I  have 
seen.  One  marked  instance  of  the  degradation  of  the 
people  is  their  converting  women  into  beasts  of  burden  — 
carrying  on  their  heads  and  shoulders  enormous  loads, 
half-bent  to  the  earth,  barelegged,  and  supporting  them 
selves  with  long  staves.  Those  women,  however,  who 
bring  snow  from  the  mountains  seem  much  stronger  and 
healthier.  They  also  are  bare-legged,  very  picturesque, 
and  famous  walkers.  Of  course  half  the  people  here  beg; 
and  the  children  are  very  impudent  and  without  any 
sort  of  manners  towards  the  forestieri,  who  are  a  special 
godsend  to  them  in  the  way  of  sport  and  amusement. 
One  stranger  from  beyond  Italy  will  set  a  whole  street 
agape  from  one  end  to  the  other,  and  the  dirty  little  imps 
tag  after  him  as  if  he  were  a  dancing  bear,  or  the  man 
from  the  moon.  .  .  . 

July  18.  Trip  to  Capri.  At  this  beautiful  island,  Story, 
Cropsey,  and  I  put  up  at  Pagani's,  the  artist's  albergo, 
where  we  found  several  Americans  and  Englishmen,  who 
had  most  of  them  come  there  to  frolic  and  dissipate. 

We  visited  the  chief  beauties  of  the  island  (according 
to  the  guides),  i.  e.,  the  Ponte  Naturale,  a  grand  and  won 
derful  arch  of  gray  rock  on  a  high  cliff  near  the  sea  —  the 
Grotto  Matrimonia,  the  Piccola  Marina,  the  Blue  Grotto 
again,  and  Anacapri,  to  which  we  ascend  by  five  hundred 
and  thirty-six  difficult  steps.  Above  Anacapri,  at  a 


SORRENTO  147 

height  of  over  one  thousand  feet,  we  visited  the  Castle  of 
Barbarossa.  We  made  a  good  many  sketches  in  pencil; 
bathed  several  times  in  the  sea,  which  is  deliciously  clear. 
At  night  we  sang,  with  a  guitar,  which  we  found  in  the 
hotel. 

In  August  I  made  a  second  trip  to  Amalfi  with  Story 
and  Cropsey.  From  there  to  Salerno,  by  boat;  and  thence 
by  carriage  to  Psestum.  Our  visit  to  these  famous  old 
ruins  was  on  a  lovely,  breezy  day.  As  we  approached 
them  we  could  none  of  us  resist  the  most  enthusiastic 
exclamations  of  delight.  Never  had  I  seen  anything  more 
perfect,  such  exquisite  proportions,  such  warm,  rich 
coloring,  such  picturesquely  broken  columns;  flowers  and 
briers  growing  in  and  around,  and  sometimes  over  fallen 
capitals.  Right  through  between  the  columns  gleamed 
the  sea,  and  beyond,  the  blue,  misty  mountains.  And 
over  all  brooded  such  a  silence  and  solitude.  Nothing 
stood  between  us  and  the  Past,  to  mar  the  impression. 
Mysterious,  beautiful  temples !  Far  in  the  desert,  by  the 
sea-sands,  in  a  country  cursed  by  malaria,  the  only  un- 
blighted  and  perfect  things,  —  standing  there  for  over 
two  thousand  years.  It  was  almost  like  going  to  Greece. 

We  took  our  repast  in  the  great  temple  of  Neptune; 
then  betook  ourselves  resolutely  to  sketching.  .  .  .  These 
are  said  to  be  the  oldest  temples  existing  in  Europe,  —  so 
that  even  the  Emperor  Augustus  visited  them  as  ruins. 
Of  the  rest  of  the  city  nothing  else  remains,  that  we  could 
discover  from  a  rapid  survey,  but  a  part  of  the  walls  and 
a  gate.  They  told  us  it  was  unsafe  to  remain  here  after 
three  o'clock  on  account  of  the  malaria.  Our  stay  was  too 
brief,  but  the  sun  began  to  descend,  and  we  hurried  away, 
and  almost  before  we  could  make  this  vision  of  loveliness 
real  and  tangible,  we  were  out  of  sight  of  it  forever. 

The  rocks  and  mountains  in  the  gulf  of  Salerno  are  very 


148    CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 

rugged,  wild  and  fantastic  in  their  forms.  We  amused 
ourselves  tracing  out  amongst  them  the  shapes  of  tem 
ples,  towers,  and  huge  castles,  more  or  less  distinctively 
suggested  by  their  singular  formations.  Sometimes  the 
resemblance  to  architecture  of  the  most  gigantic  and  wild 
proportions,  is  very  striking;  Moorish  towers  with  arches 
and  doorways,  pyramids,  bridges,  huge  gates,  and  often 
the  resemblance  of  the  strata  to  the  masonry  of  walls, 
amounts  to  deception. 

One  morning  Cropsey  and  I  walked  six  miles  from 
Amalfi,  along  the  shore  to  sketch  a  fine  old  ruined  castle 
beside  the  sea  called  Bazia.  Near  it  is  a  famous  cavern 
called  the  Grotto  of  San  Francisco,  in  which  are  the  ruins 
of  an  old  church,  the  mortar  of  whose  walls  is  preserved 
as  white  and  unmarred  (owing  to  the  sea-air)  as  if  built 
yesterday.  At  the  back  of  it  is  a  deep  chasm  with  water 
at  the  bottom,  down  which  the  guides  throw  stones,  that 
you  may  hear  the  reverberation.  They  told  us  that  a 
man  once  found  his  way  through  this  chasm  underground 
to  Castellamare.  If  he  did,  it  was  a  miracle  equal  to  any 
of  the  saint,  whose  presence  presided  over  the  Cave. 

We  were  between  four  and  five  months  at  Sorrento. 
Nothing  could  have  been  lovelier  than  the  place  we  were 
in.  On  our  little  vine-shaded  terrace  we  sat,  and  took  our 
tea,  while  enjoying  the  extensive  view  over  the  Bay.  We 
could  bathe  at  any  time  on  the  beach  below,  to  which  we 
descended  by  path  and  stairway,  cut  through  the  cavern 
ous  tufa  rock. 

One  morning  as  I  sat  sketching  on  the  shore,  a  hand 
some,  picturesque  fisherman  suddenly  appeared,  with  his 
boat.  We  were  at  once  on  the  friendliest  terms.  He  had 
the  natural  good  manners  of  a  gentleman.  I  got  him  to 
pose  just  there,  and  made  a  rough  sketch  of  him  and  his 
boat. 


SORRENTO 

We  paid  a  very  moderate  price  for  our  rooms,  and  for 
our  domestic  service  the  cost  was  absurdly  low.  Our  cook 
was  old  Luigia,  one  of  the  De  Angelis  family  ~  a  higher 
class  of  peasants,  who  owned  the  place,  and  whose  cot 
tage  was  within  the  same  enclosure  with  us.  This  family 
took  care  of  the  grounds,  and  the  women  raised  silk 
worms.  Luigia  had  an  original  recipe  for  cooking  eggs. 
She  knew  just  how  long  they  should  be  boiled  by  the 
number  of  Aves  she  said  over  them!  .... 


CHAPTER  IX 

FLORENCE  AND   THE   BROWNINGS 

FROM  the  Autobiography:  — 

We  left  Naples  for  Florence  on  September  24.  We  had 
I  intended  returning  to  Rome,  but  affairs  were  getting  too 
disturbed  in  that  region,  and  we  were  advised  not  to  go 
there.  We  left  in  a  little  steamer,  stopping  at  Civita 
Vecchia  and  Leghorn;  we  had  bad  weather  and  a  rather 
miserable  time  on  the  way,  and  were  dreadfully  imposed 
upon  by  the  boatmen  and  porters,  and  bothered  by  the 
custom-house  officers. 

As  soon  as  possible  George  and  I  sallied  out  with  a 
loquacious,  stupid  old  valet  de  place  who  pretended  he 
could  speak  English,  —  and  made  what  use  of  our  time 
and  eyes  we  could.  Called  on  Powers,  found  him  in  his 
workshop  in  working  dress.  He  received  us  very  cordially 
and  seemed  just  as  he  did  nine  years  ago  when  I  knew  him 
in  Washington.  We  saw  the  model  of  his  Eve,  a  bust  of 
Proserpine,  a  bust  of  the  Grand  Duchess,  his  boy  holding 
the  shell  to  his  ear,  a  duplicate  of  his  Greek  Slave  not 
quite  finished,  and  the  rough  model  in  clay  of  a  statue  of 
J.  C.  Calhoun  for  Charleston.  His  Greek  Slave  seems  to 
me  as  near  perfection  as  can  be.  I  cannot  imagine  any 
thing  more  exquisitely  beautiful.  .  .  . 

Near  sunset  we  went  into  the  Duomo  —  the  Church  of 
Santa  Maria  del  Fiore.  It  was  beautiful  and  holy  at  this 
hour,  the  sun  illuminating  all  the  rich  old  stained  glass 
windows,  and  shooting  down  level  bars  of  light  from  the 
dome,  —  the  lamps  on  the  altar  and  the  chanting  and 


FLORENCE  AND  THE  BROWNINGS    151 

responses  of  the  kneeling  groups  scattered  about  over 
the  wide  floor.  .  .  . 

One  evening  at  twilight  we  all  went  into  the  San 
Frediano  at  vespers.  The  chanting  of  the  boys  behind 
the  altar,  answered  by  the  voluntaries  of  the  organ,  whose 
softer  stops  were  peculiarly  rich,  was  very  impressive. 
The  kneeling  crowd  seemed  really  devotional  beneath 
these  glorious  arches,  this  fine  music  and  the  gathering 
shades  of  evening.  .  .  .  There  was  one  prayer,  one  tran 
quil  aspiration  from  the  hearts  of  all.  There  is  something 
exceedingly  impressive  in  seeing  the  old,  the  poor  and 
infirm,  come  up  and  kneel  without  distinction  of  place, 
beside  the  rich  and  the  beautiful.  Here  is  one  place,  — 
and  that  the  holiest,  the  most  beautiful,  the  most  fitted 
to  awaken  and  keep  alive  devotional  feeling,  —  where 
all  can  meet  as  on  common  ground. 

We  have  excellent  lodgings  —  in  a  central  part  of  the 
city,  near  the  Palazzo  Vecchio  and  the  Loggia  dei  Lanzi. 
From  our  windows  looking  up  the  street  we  see  Michael 
Angelo's  "David."  1  Within  a  minute's  walk  is  this  and 
a  number  of  other  celebrated  statues. 

Looking  over  my  journal,  I  find  that  we  enjoyed 
Florence  much.  We  went  to  the  opera,  heard  "  Saff o  "  by 
Pacini  and  "Don  Procopio"  by  Fiorovanti,  which  we 
liked,  but  were  much  disgusted  with  the  Italian  fashion 
of  introducing  the  ballet  between  the  acts.  I  remember 
that  sometimes  we  went  with  our  friends  Frank  Boott 
and  the  Storys,  and  would  go  away  when  the  ballet  came 
to  Boott's  house  where  we  had  supper,  and  returned  to 
finish  the  opera.  The  ballet  is  intolerable  enough  in  itself, 
but  when  it  interrupts  and  breaks  the  flow  of  a  good 

1  This  statue  used  to  stand  in  front  of  the  old  royal  palace.  It  was 
removed  to  the  Accademia  dei  Belle  Arte  to  preserve  it  from  the 

elements. 


152    CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 

opera,  it  becomes  past  all  endurance.  So  that  it  requires 
the  extremest  stretch  of  patience  to  sit  it  through,  in  or 
der  to  hear  the  last  act  of  the  opera.  And  yet  the  corrupt 
taste  of  the  Italians  is  carried  so  far  that  they  will  fall 
into  the  noisiest  displays  of  enthusiasm  at  the  dancers, 
surpassing  all  their  bravos  excited  by  the  music  and 
singing.  It  suffices  that  they  are  amused;  that  is  enough 
for  an  Italian.  The  cause  is  of  little  consequence. 

I  went  one  day  to  the  studio  of  Bartolini,  a  sculptor  of 
some  reputation  at  that  time.  There  was  the  same  repe 
tition  of  the  antique  that  marks  all  the  work  of  the  Ital 
ians.  An  Eve,  with  the  Serpent,  reclining  dejected  after 
her  fall,  was  quite  good.  A  bust  of  Lord  Byron  interested 
me  as  expressing  that  curious  combination  of  qualities  in 
his  character.  There  were  his  fine  sensitiveness,  his  pride, 
his  discontent,  his  sensuousness,  his  ideality,  and  his 
hard,  practical  worldliness,  all  mingled  in  the  face.  I 
don't  know  how  it  ranks  with  Thorwaldsen's,  which  I 
have  never  seen.  I  remember  that  Byron  somewhere  in 
one  of  his  letters  speaks  of  this  bust  as  making  him  look 
like  "a  superannuated  Jesuit." 

I  find  that  I  was  much  impressed  by  the  busts  of  our 
countryman,  Hiram  Powers.  I  thought  I  had  seen 
nothing  to  compare  with  them  for  truth  and  expression. 
With  Powers  himself  as  a  bright,  genial,  friendly  man,  I 
was  much  taken.  He  was  full  of  pleasant  anecdote  and 
fun.  His  wife  too,  we  found  very  agreeable.  We  saw  a 
good  deal  also  of  Horatio  Greenough,  who  stood  high  as 
a  sculptor,  and  enjoyed  much  his  society  and  that  of  his 
wife.  With  the  Storys  we  were  intimate. 

It  is  needless  to  say  how  we  enjoyed  the  fine  galleries, 
the  Pitti,  and  the  Uffizzi.  We  were  much  impressed  with 
the  grand  statues  of  Michael  Angelo  at  the  Chapel  of  the 
Medici  family  in  the  Church  of  San  Lorenzo;  and  with 


FLORENCE  AND  THE  BROWNINGS    153 

the  frescoes  of  Masaccio  in  the  Carmelite  Chapel  or 
Church  of  the  Brancacci.  They  are  truly  wonderful.  For 
simplicity  and  truth  to  nature  I  have  seen  nothing  of 
Raphael  which  surpasses  the  marked  individuality  and 
character  of  these  figures  and  faces.  Every  head  seemed  a 
portrait,  and  no  single  figure  or  face  but  tells  part  of  the 
story.  And  yet  these  were  painted  before  the  time  of 
Leonardo  da  Vinci  and  almost  a  century  before  Raphael. 
They  furnished  studies  and  subjects  for  all  the  best  mas 
ters  who  succeeded  Masaccio;  and  showed  a  tremendous 
stride  in  advance  of  the  dry,  stiff  compositions  of  his 
predecessors  in  art.  Yet  they  were  painted  by  a  young 
man  who  died  at  the  age  of  twenty-seven. 

January  13,  1849. 1  They  call  this  the  season  of  the 
Carnival  in  Florence.  It  extends,  I  believe,  from  Christ 
mas  to  Lent.  But  I  see  nothing  that  seems  like  that  sea 
son  to  me,  but  the  opening  of  the  theatres.  Everything 
goes  on  just  as  usual.  How  different  such  a  diluted  and 
watery  Carnival  from  the  almost  too  spicy  and  condensed 
festival  of  Rome,  where  all  is  crowded  into  nine  days  of 
entire  abandonment  to  the  spirit  of  frolic  and  gay  mas 
querade.  Here  is  no  masking,  here  no  gaily  decked  bal 
conies  and  crowded  windows  looking  down  on  the  great 
thronging  multitude,  emancipated  from  form  and  exult 
ing  in  the  liberty  of  children;  no  lines  of  men  and  women 
in  carriages,  and  dense  masses  of  foot-passengers;  no 
whirl  of  revelry;  no  blight  of  flowers  and  raining  of  con 
fetti,  no  race  of  riderless  horses  at  sunset;  no  glorious 
moccoletti  suggestive  of  Oriental  feasts!  Rome  alone  for 
all  this!  Ah,  what  can  ever  imitate  it?  A  few  old  tar 
nished  masquerade  dresses  hang  here  and  there  in  some 
poor  Jew-pedlar's  stall  —  like  soiled  and  trampled  rose- 
leaves,  that  have  seen  their  night  of  ballroom  splendor, 
1  From  the  Journal. 


154    CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 

and  are  thrown  into  the  muddy  street.  That  short-lived 
and  splendid  flower,  the  Roman  Carnival,  which  waits 
the  whole  year  for  its  blooming,  and  in  nine  days  shrivels 
up  and  falls,  leaving  nothing  but  the  dry  old  stalk  which 
held  it,  cannot  bloom  anywhere  but  in  its  native  soil. 
Transplant  it,  and  it  becomes  a  common  flower. 

January  H.  What  queer  things  are  constantly  passing 
here  in  Italy  in  the  streets,  which  go  unnoticed  because 
so  common!  How  odd  they  would  be  in  America!  Just 
now  I  passed  a  man  (Sunday  morning)  with  a  large  hen 
in  one  hand,  hanging  by  the  legs.  In  the  other  was  a 
paper  containing  I  suppose  numbers  for  chances  for  a 
raffle  of  the  said  hen, —  while  he  cried  "Signori!  ecc' 
una  bella  femina!  bella,  bella! "  I  have  seen  them  driving 
along  a  solitary  turkey  in  the  same  way. 

The  common  street-cries  are  sometimes  alarming  at 
first  to  a  stranger.  You  are  sitting  quietly  in  your  room, 
when  you  are  roused  by  what  seems  a  violent  altercation 
in  the  street.  Two  or  three  persons  are  vociferating  at  the 
top  of  their  lungs,  and  apparently  in  such  a  state  of  ex 
citement  that  you  expect  something  dreadful.  Perhaps 
the  Grand  Duke  has  ordered  out  his  soldiers  to  clear  the 
streets ;  or  a  policeman  is  apprehending  a  thief ;  or  there  is 
a  street-fight  which  hundreds  are  rushing  to  see;  what  can 
it  be!  The  streets  are  nearly  empty,  and  all  this  holla- 
balloo  comes  from  two  or  three  pedlars  who  are  anxious 
to  dispose  of  their  commodities.  But  no  one  seems  to 
regard  them  or  wonder  at  their  vociferation.  You  see 
men  every  day  selling  buttons,  tape  and  handkerchiefs, 
standing  at  a  corner  of  a  street,  exclaiming,  "Un  pauolo, 
un  pauolo!"  in  a  tone  as  if  they  were  screaming,  "Fire, 
fire!"  or,  "Stand  out  of  the  way!  the  house  is  tumbling 
down!" 

One  day  I  met  an  old  man  rolling  along  a  sort  of  hand- 


FLORENCE  AND  THE  BROWNINGS    155 

cart  in  which  he  had,  I  believe,  shoe-blacking  for  sale. 
Suddenly  he  stopped  short,  and  with  the  utmost  rage 
depicted  on  his  countenance,  seemed  abusing  somebody  a 
good  way  ahead  of  him,  for  he  looked  steadily  down  the 
street,  and  seemed  to  be  expending  his  wrath  on  some 
invisible  object  in  that  quarter.  I  looked  that  way  and 
could  see  no  one.  I  thought  some  one  might  have  robbed 
him,  or  perhaps  some  small  boy  in  his  service  had  run 
away,  and  he  was  ordering  him  back.  No  such  thing !  He 
was  only  extolling  the  excellence  of  his  superior  blacking. 
The  constant  effort  of  bawling  as  loud  as  possible  must 
have  communicated  to  his  features  that  excessively  iras 
cible  look,  till  it  had  become  the  habitual  cast  of  his  face. 

From  the  Autobiography:  - 

I  shall  never  forget  the  gesticulations  of  the  common 
class  of  Romans  and  Neapolitans.  The  Roman,  especially 
when  excited  by  wine,  when  conversing  with  animation, 
will  raise  not  only  his  shoulders  but  both  arms,  and  with 
all  the  fingers  of  both  hands  spread,  make  them  quiver 
like  heat-lightning  over  his  head.  The  Neapolitan  is  still 
more  extreme  and  various  in  his  natural  language.1  The 
mariners  when  excited  in  conversation  sometimes  seem 
as  if  they  would  fly  out  of  their  skins.  Ariel  himself  could 
not  be  more  nimble.  In  caricature  of  rapid  enunciation 
and  grotesque  gesture  they  eclipse  their  very  Polcinellos 
—  shoulders  up  to  their  ears,  heads  thrust  forward,  eyes 
starting  from  their  sockets,  their  fingers  all  drawn  to 
gether  to  their  tips,  and  both  hands  in  this  manner  quiv 
ering  with  electric  life,  and  thrust  almost  into  the  faces  of 
the  party  addressed,  the  voice  meanwhile  squeaking  in 
the  highest  possible  falsetto,  and  the  outlandish  Neapoli- 

1  The  beggars  rap  their  chins  and  twirl  their  hands  before  their 
mouths  to  express  hunger. 


156    CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE   CRANCH 

tan  patois  rattling  off  with  such  volubility  from  their 
tongues,  so  that  it  is  said  they  often  cannot  understand 
each  other  when  excited;  such  is  nothing  uncommon. 

There  is  hardly  less  moderation  in  the  jabbering  of  the 
Roman  peasants.  A  stranger  passing  a  wine-shop  or 
osteria,  filled  with  men  and  women  at  their  noonday 
meal,  might  easily  suspect  that  some  fierce  quarrel  was 
going  on.  It  is  only  the  ordinary  way  of  these  people. 

We  enjoyed  greatly  this  winter  in  Florence.  Our  rooms 
were  in  the  Via  val  Fonda,  not  far  from  the  Church  Santa 
Maria  Novella.  It  was  there  I  began  my  poem  "The 
Bird  and  the  Bell." 

December  20,  1848.1  We  called  yesterday  at  the  Casa 
Guidi  to  see  Robert  Browning  and  his  wife,  Elizabeth 
Barrett  Browning.  Found  her  a  small,  delicate,  not  hand 
some  invalid,  who  did  not  impress  me  at  all  at  first  as  the 
poetess  and  woman  of  learning  and  genius  she  is,  till  she 
warmed  into  conversation  on  some  interesting  theme, 
such  as  Italy  and  the  Pope  and  France.  Then  her  eyes 
shone  with  a  true  inward  lustre.  Her  enthusiasm  in 
speaking  of  children  and  her  general  goodness  of  heart 
impressed  me  most.  I  thought  her  somewhat  diffident, 
and  like  one  who  had  lived  in  retirement  most  of  her 
life. 

Browning  is  very  different;  he  seems  a  man  who  has 
lived  in  society  —  a  true,  social,  healthy,  open,  frank 
nature,  entering  into  life  and  associating  with  men,  while 
inwardly  delicate  and  poetic. 

Just  the  man  for  a  dramatist.  There  is  something  vig 
orous  and  terse  and  strong  in  his  speech.  I  should  judge 
him  a  truly  warmhearted  man,  with  a  great  deal  of 
magnetism  in  his  nature. 

December  23.  Browning  called  to  see  us  at  the  house 
1  From  the  Journal. 


FLORENCE  AND  THE  BROWNINGS    157 

and  to-day  at  my  studio.  Both  were  good,  long,  real  and 
not  formal  visits.  He  seems  much  interested  in  pic 
tures. 

I  was  much  indebted  to  Mrs.  Browning  this  winter  for 
her  criticism  on  some  lines  in  my  poem  "The  Bird  and 
the  Bell,"  which  I  had  then  partly  written,  and  ventured 
to  show  her.  The  tone  of  the  poem  seemed  to  please  them 
both;  but  as  I  had  requested  criticism  from  Mrs.  Brown 
ing,  she  gave  it,  in  a  letter  which  I  have  from  her,  and  I 
profited  by  it  in  my  subsequent  re-writing  of  the  poem 
during  the  Italian  Revolution.1 

January.2  Browning  came  again  to  my  studio.  He 
looked  over  my  sketches  with  a  great  deal  of  interest  and 
talked  on  art  and  literature  and  a  variety  of  subjects:  a 
most  genial  man  to  whom  I  feel  drawn  exceedingly. 
Afterwards  I  went  with  him  to  Story's  studio,  where  we 
sat  talking  for  some  time.  He  has  a  most  rounded  and 
complete  culture;  shows  great  knowledge  and  apprecia 
tion  of  works  of  art,  of  which  he  talked  a  good  deal.  Rus- 
kin's  book  on  the  old  landscape  painters,  we  discussed 
freely.  We  talked  of  the  works  of  various  old  masters. 
Turner  he  criticised  severely;  liked  Gainsborough  and 
Wilson.  I  find  also  that  he  is  a  musician,  plays  on  the 
piano  and  shows  a  great  appreciation  of  the  best  com 
posers. 

To  Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning 

I  write  to  ask  of  you  a  favor,  but  before  I  do  so  I  must 
make  a  little  preface. 

First,  be  assured  that  I  am  speaking  sincerely  and  not 

complimentarily,  when  I  say  that  ever  since  I  have 

known  your  poems,  I  have  felt  the  deepest  interest  in 

them,  and  in  their  author.  They  have  appealed  to  me,  as 

1  Autobiography.  a  Journal. 


158    CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 

all  the  best  poetry  has  and  ever  will;  and  it  is  because  I 
have  never  expressed,  as  I  long  to,  this  sympathy;  be 
cause  in  conversation  we  have  never  met  on  this  en 
chanted  ground,  so  dear  to  me  also;  and  because  so  very 
soon  I  shall  be  thousands  of  miles  distant  from  you,  — 
that  I  am  emboldened  to  write  to  you  now. 

You  bear  a  celebrated  name,  no  less  than  your  hus 
band.  I  little  dreamed  a  short  time  ago  I  should  ever  be 
honored  so  far  as  to  know  you  both  personally.  In  Amer 
ica  there  are  many  who  would  envy  me  the  privilege  of 
having  known  you  both.  Believe  me  that  I  say  these 
things  from  no  feeling  but  of  love  and  admiration  for 
your  writings  and  Mr.  Browning's.  What  I  say  is  from 
one  who  feels  and  loves  poetry  as  the  finest  intellectual 
tie  that  can  exist  between  men.  I  could  not  leave  Flor 
ence  and  not  strive  to  express  what  has  lain  so  long  in 
my  heart. 

You  were  kind  in  expressing  so  favorable  an  opinion  on 
my  lines  on  Vesuvius.  I  have  lately  written  something 
better,  and  the  request  I  have  to  make,  is,  that  you  will 
allow  me  some  day  to  read  it  to  you,  and  to  give  me  the 
benefit  of  any  suggestions  you  may  make  with  regard  to 
an  improvement  on  it. 

I  ask  it,  not  to  seek  praise,  but  candid  criticism,  and  as 
it  were  to  antedate  the  privileges  of  an  acquaintance, 
which  I  so  much  regret  must  end  so  soon.  Pardon  my 
presumption.  I  could  not  say  what  I  have,  did  I  not  feel 
I  was  addressing  a  poet. 

From  Mrs.  Browning  to  Mrs.  Cranch 

I  write  to  explain  to  you,  my  dear  Mrs.  Cranch,  the 
apparent  negligence  with  which  Mr.  Cranch's  letter  has 
been  treated  by  us.  I  am  sure  you  will  both  forgive  us, 
when  you  know  that  we  have  been  in  affliction,  —  that 


FLORENCE  AND  THE  BROWNINGS    159 

my  husband  has  lost  his  mother  and  been  in  great  anguish 
of  mind,  to  which  I,  in  my  weakness  of  body  could  do 
little  towards  helping  to  alleviate.  Thank  God,  who  has 
helped  us  both,  for  he  is  better  and  calmer  now,  and  his 
first  thought  has  turned  on  you,  lest  you  should  think 
him  unkind.  So  I  write  to  tell  you  his  opinion  of  the 
poem,  —  that  nothing  in  the  versification  justifies  the 
rejection  by  the  American  editor,  the  only  exceptionable 
line  appearing  to  him  to  be  the  last  but  one,  where  the 
rhythm  forces  you  into  a  false  emphasis  "As  7  do."  For 
the  rest,  the  poem  is  full  of  poetical  feeling,  and  if  maga 
zines  in  America  can  afford  to  reject  such,  so  much  the 
better  for  them,  or  the  worse  I  The  editor  probably  holds 
to  exploded  systems  of  versification  which  would  explain 
something. 

I  am  sure  you  will  feel  for  us,  dear  Mrs.  Cranch.  There 
was  no  time  to  go  to  England.  My  poor  husband,  strong 
in  all  his  affections,  adored  his  mother.  See  how  near 
death  and  life  we  are!  Our  little  babe  grows  fat  and 
strong,  as  if  there  were  no  sorrow  in  the  world.  God 
bless  you ! 

Mrs.  Browning  to  Mr.  Cranch 

PALAZZO  GUIDI,  May  3  (1849). 

We  have  read  your  poem  with  great  attention,  and  will 
set  down  whatever  remarks  occur  to  us,  since  you  insist 
on  such  a  piece  of  impertinence. 

"Sweet  bird,  the  fresh,  clear  sparkle  of  thy  voice 
Came  quickening  all  the  fountains,"  etc. 

A  beautiful  metaphor  taken  from  rain.  I  particularly  like 
it.  Why  in  the  next  line,  not  "list  to  thee"  —  rather 
than  "listen  thee  "? 

"  Fresh  message  from  the  beauty  infinite 
That  wraps  the  universe  in  wonder  and  delight." 


160    CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 

If  beauty  wraps  the  universe,  there  is  no  need  to  send 
messages.  Therefore  the  figure  does  not  appear  happy. 

"That  lives  above  the  world";  or, 

"Reigns  above  the  world."  Quaere  ? 

and  so  also  you  get  the  other  advantage  of  the  pause  in 
the  long  line,  which  strikes  us  as  being  too  much  neg 
lected  throughout  the  poem.  In  exceptional  cases  an 
effect  is  produced  by  this  neglect  of  this  pause,  only  the 
cases  ought  to  be  exceptional. 

The  "bell"  is  effectually  described,  but  my  husband 
objects  to  the  "nerve  of  nature  struck  by  a  wound,"  and 
observes  that  nobody  is  struck  by  a  wound,  but  by  a 
blow,  —  quaere,  "felt  a  wound"  or  "suffered  wound"? 
Also  in  the  long  line  of  the  same  stanza  can  "lightning" 
be  supposed  to  "catch  a  living  breath"?  The  expression 
seems  vague  and  not  happy. 

"For  one  who  loves  to  dwell,"  etc.;  these  two  stanzas 
are  excellent,  the  language  full  and  emphatic.  I  like  too 
(farther  on)  the  "sitting  in  altar  nooks  and  burning 
candles  to  its  god,"  though  the  syllables  are  too  many.  I 
like  the  thought,  the  image. 

"By  a  rude  populace,"  "languished  beneath  a  frown," 
is  not  a  good  line,  we  both  think,  and  it  might  so  easily  be 
improved.  The  accentuation  is  wrong,  and  no  good  effect 
is  produced  by  the  license. 

"Take  the  poet's  verse 
But  not  the  poet." 

All  this  has  much  truth  and  beauty. 
Do  "vampire  pinions"  work  "enchanted  sleep"?   Is 
the  metaphor  right? 

"Lies  stereotyped,"  etc.;  very  good  the  expression  is. 
"The  angel  smiles,"  etc.;  beautiful  lines. 

"Of  nature,  along  whose  endless  arc  are  strown"  — 


FLORENCE  AND  THE  BROWNINGS    161 

Why  not  "o'er"  or  "on  whose  endless,"  etc.?  —  on  ac 
count  of  the  structure  of  the  line  which  does  not  bear 
"along";  also  this  same  "along"  occurs  afterward  in  the 
final  line. 

"Whose  only  crime  was  that  ye  were  awake, 
Too  soon,"  etc. 

I  admire  this  and  the  winding  up  is  full  of  beautiful 
truth. 

The  next  time  the  bird  sings  we  both  of  us  hope,  dear 
Mr.  Cranch,  that  he  may  not  be  interrupted.  Once  more 
allow  us  to  thank  you  for  the  proof  of  confidence,  which, 
believe  us,  is  responded  to  by  my  husband's  regard  and 
that  of  yours  most  truly 

ELIZABETH  BARRETT  BROWNING. 

My  love  to  Mrs.  Cranch;  am  I  not  to  see  her  soon? 

Mrs.  Cranch  used  to  tell  this  little  story  about  the 
Brownings  and  the  Browning  baby:  — 

While  we  were  living  in  the  Via  val  Fonda  in  Florence 
in  1849,  we  wished  to  present  our  letter  of  introduction 
from  Margaret  Fuller  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Browning.  Asking 
William  Story  the  etiquette  in  Italy  in  such  matters,  we 
were  informed  it  was  proper  to  leave  the  letter  first  with 
our  cards,  and  call  a  few  days  later. 

Three  days  later,  Pearse  and  I  went  to  the  Casa  Guidi 
and  were  received  most  cordially  in  a  beautiful  large 
room,  by  both  the  Brownings. 

Browning  would  occasionally  walk  up  and  down  the 
room  with  energy,  as  he  talked,  while  Mrs.  Browning 
spoke  through  her  eyes,  which  were  large  dark-gray  eyes, 
and  fine.  Later,  in  the  winter,  coming  into  our  apartment 
towards  evening,  Domenica,  who  was  nurse  and  maid, 
told  us  that  Signor  Browning  had  called.  "Oh,"  I  said, 


162    CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE   CRANCH 

"  what  did  the  Signer  say?  "  "  Che  cosa  disse  il  Signore  ?  " 
"Niente,  Signora,"  answered  Domenica,  "non  cammi- 
nava,  ballava."  "Nothing,  Madam,  he  did  not  walk,  he 
danced";  and  then  repeated  what  Browning  had  said, 
"la  Signora  Browning  afatto  un  figlio  maschio"  ("Mrs. 
Browning  has  given  birth  to  a  male  child  ").  This  must 
have  been  delivered  with  great  unction,  to  judge  from 
Domenica's  gesticulations. 

After  a  proper  length  of  time  I  decided  to  call  and  in 
quire  for  Mrs.  Browning.  I  rang  the  doorbell  at  the  Casa 
Guidi,  when  Browning  himself  came  to  the  door,  and 
seeing  who  it  was,  said,  in  his  heartiest  tones,  "Mrs. 
Cranch,  come  right  in!"  and  as  he  said  this  he  drew  me 
into  the  house  with  both  hands.  As  there  was  no  refusing 
him,  I  consented  to  let  him  ask  the  nurse  if  I  could  see  the 
baby,  to  which  answer  was  brought  in  the  affirmative.  I 
entered  a  darkened  room,  and  there  lay  Mrs.  Browning, 
looking  like  an  angel,  with  her  sweet  gray  eyes  and  pro 
fusion  of  dark  curls.  I  kissed  her  hand  and  murmured 
some  kind  wish  for  her  health,  while  Browning,  eager  to 
show  me  the  little  blossom,  drew  me  to  a  corner  covered 
with  white  muslin  and  pink  curtains,  saying,  "Now,  you 
must  see  the  baby!" 

I  gazed  into  this  bower  of  rose-color  and  lace,  unable  to 
distinguish  anything  beside  the  soft  color  and  dainty 
fabric.  But  something  must  be  said,  so  I  murmured, 
"How  beautiful!"  But  Browning  was  not  to  be  put  off 
in  this  way. 

"Do  you  see  him?"  said  he. 

"No,  truly,"  I  was  forced  to  answer. 

He  then  went  and  brought  a  cerina,  a  little  wax  taper, 
and  by  its  soft,  flickering  light,  I  was  at  last  able  to  behold 
the  Browning  baby.  .  .  .  Later  on,  when  Browning  hap 
pened  into  our  rooms  one  day,  and  our  own  dear  baby  lay 


FLORENCE  AND  THE  BROWNINGS    163 

asleep  in  her  cradle,  Browning  stooped  over,  and  kissing 
her  on  the  forehead  without  awakening  her,  said,  "Now 
she  has  a  poet's  blessing!" 

George  William  Curtis  to  Mrs.  Cranch 

PARIS,  February  25,  1849. 

Yesterday  the  Republic  completed  its  first  and  I  my 
twenty-fifth  year!  Think  of  it,  Lizzie,  a  quarter  of  a  cen 
tury  !  I  begin  already  to  totter  and  feel  grey  hairs  on  my 
head,  and  Burrill  groans  because  every  birthday  of  mine 
sets  him  so  sadly  forward.  The  day  was  celebrated  by 
these  Frenchmen  very  coldly.  The  crowds  were  small. 
The  cry  was  "Vive  Napoleon!"  and  nothing  was  striking 
except  the  front  of  the  beautiful  Madeleine  draped  in 
black  and  along  the  broad  street  which  is  its  avenue  from 
the  Place  de  la  Concorde,  huge  funeral  vases  and  urns 
flaring  and  smoking  with  incense.  This  and  the  Temple 
itself  was  Greek.  But  the  French  genius  does  so  travesty 
everything  it  touches.  And  then  Lamartine  says  in  a 
gush  of  enthusiasm,  "If  God  has  a  great  work  to  do  he 
elects  a  Frenchman  to  do  it."  In  saying  that,  he  speaks 
for  France  and  that  is  the  reason  he  is  so  really  pop 
ular.  .  .  . 

Now  I  am  going  to  plunge  into  gossip,  because  it  is  a 
shame  for  me  to  be  seeing  and  hearing  Paris  and  not  tell 
you  about  it.  So  we'll  go  to  the  opera  where  Alboni  is 
singing  with  Ronconi,  and  where  I  heard  Lablache.  The 
house  is  small  but  very  rich,  not  so  spacious  and  tasteful 
and  unique  as  the  Berlin  opera  house,  which  is  the  first  I 
have  seen  in  Europe,  St.  Carlo  and  La  Scala  not  excepted 
altho'  they  are  much  larger.  Alboni  is  a  young  fat  Italian, 
singing  for  her  third  season.  She  has  no  genius,  and  can 
not  act,  but  her  voice  is  the  most  exquisite  contralto  I  can 
fancy.  It  is  precisely  the  voice  you  would  imagine  in  an 


164    CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 

easy  handsome  Italian  woman,  if  it  was  first  rate  and 
contralto.  The  sweetness  and  purity  and  power  are  de 
licious.  She  crushes  her  eyes  together  as  she  sings,  though 
never  making  faces,  just  as  your  soul  smiles  and  folds  it 
self  together  in  the  listening.  Your  sense  becomes  a  great 
serpent  which  stretches  and  rolls  and  doubles  up  in  the 
great  gush  of  golden  sunshine.  Her  soprano  part  is  very 
true  and  clear  and  sweet,  only  not  so  singularly  strong 
and  rich  as  the  contralto.  In  some  songs  she  comes  from 
a  pure  point  of  soprano  height  floating  down  through 
strange  and  true  intervals,  until  the  pyramid  of  sound  is 
completed  in  your  thought  by  grand  massive  sweeps  of 
contralto  which  build  the  base,  and  you  feel  as  if  you  saw 
the  angels  on  Jacob's  dream-ladder  descending  from 
heaven  indeed,  but  with  every  step  into  more  perceptible 
beauty.  If  you  lose  yourself  and  laugh  in  this  extraordi 
nary  pot-pourri  of  metaphor,  you  can  imagine  the  better 
how  deliciously  you  lose  yourself  in  the  sweet  whirlpool 
of  sound,  and  if  you  laugh,  so  much  the  better  resem 
blance.  .  .  . 

Walter  Savage  Landor,  who,  by  the  way,  in  a  sonnet 
to  Robert  Browning  compares  his  firm  tread  and  cheer 
ful  eye  to  Chaucer,  says  that  imagination  shines  even 
more  "gloriously"  in  Tennyson  than  in  Keats.  That  is 
perceptive  praise,  the  criticism  of  a  sympathetic  soul. 
Keats  died  a  boy.  He  was  tangled  in  his  own  magnificent 
luxuriance.  How  I  do  love  these  men,  Keats,  Shelley, 
Tennyson,  and  Browning.  On  the  other  hand  is  Taylor, 
whose  "Philip  van  Artevelde"  I  have  just  happened  to 
read  for  the  first  time,  more's  the  shame  and  pity.  It 
seems  as  if  it  must  have  come,  independent  of  the  man. 
The  preface  is  puerile,  the  interlude  diluted.  Wordsworth, 
and  all  his  other  poems  that  I  have  read,  hard  and  bare 
and  dead.  But  the  character  of  Philip  van  Artevelde  is 


FLORENCE  AND  THE  BROWNINGS    165 

carved  with  a  sculptor's  cunning.  It  is  so  simple  and 
great  that  it  reveals  how  in  statesmanship,  as  everywhere 
else,  the  elements  are  few.  A  little  light,  color,  and  quan 
tity  makes  the  world.  He  is  always  strong,  but  sweet  and 
always  a  man,  but  a  man  of  his  own  time.  That  is  an 
artistic  success  not  always  accomplished.  Adriana  is  a 
deep  sketch  and  delicate  as  deep.  A  few  strokes,  but  the 
soul,  the  individual  soul,  shines  through.  Then  what  a 
natural  tragedy  the  book  is.  How  it  shows  him  stepping 
from  obscurity  to  success,  loving  the  state  much,  but  his 
wife  more.  Then  after  the  death  of  his  wife,  his  whole 
nature  not  sapped  nor  broken  nor  soured,  but  subdued  — 
all  his  strength  saddened.  That  was  a  fine  thing.  Such 
strength  does  not  wither,  but  just  as  sweet  and  still,  it  is 
mournful  forever  after.  Sorrow  sweeps  over  it  as  twilight 
closes  over  the  landscape.  Everywhere  the  same  forms 
and  colors  —  nothing  changed  —  yet  all  different,  even 
the  flowers,  sad. 

Besides,  I  have  been  reading  "La  Nouvelle  Heloise" 
and  Lamartine's  "Girondins,"  also  his  "Raphael"  and 
"  Confidences."  The  latter  is  his  "  Confessions,"  although 
not  an  entire  autobiography.  It  is  rather  a  series  of  ro 
mantic  and  picturesque  passages  from  the  experience  as 
a  poet.  They  are  very  beautiful  and  interesting.  The 
notices  of  certain  men  are  striking,  though  not  many,  and 
the  romance  of  Graziella,  a  Naples  fisher  girl,  who  died 
for  love  of  Lamartine,  is  truly  delicious.  But  the  whole 
book  is  drenched  in  tears  of  the  author.  He  believes  that 
all  great  things  in  life  begin  and  end  with  larmes.  This 
becomes  ridiculous  at  last.  It  is  the  purest,  most  trans 
parent  French  I  know.  I  saw  Lamartine  at  the  opera  the 
other  evening.  He  looks  older  than  I  thought  (he  is  fifty- 
nine)  and  around  his  mouth,  whose  lips  are  fallen,  flits 
and  fades  a  phantom  of  vanity.  Lamartine  is  vain,  but 


166    CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 

he  is  moulded  in  a  happy  mood  of  nature.  The  brow, 
eyes  and  nose  are  most  generous.  They  are  full  of  lofty 
sentiment,  and  you  feel  magnetically  that  he  is  capable 
of  great  acts,  like  his  resisting  the  red  flag  with  the  guns 
of  a  French  mob  pointed  at  him,  —  when  they  are  the 
inspirations  of  great  ideas.  He  is  not  great  in  the  general 
sense,  because  his  best  things  are  emotions  and  enthu 
siasms.  But  unlike  most  men,  he  is  silent  when  he  is  not 
soaring. 

.  .  .  They  were  singing  Semiramide  with  Alboni,  whose 
voice  seems  an  accident  like  the  beauty  of  many  women. 
I  mean  you  do  not  feel  the  presence  of  greatness  of  soul 
which  must  have  some  sort  of  expression.  .  .  .  Jenny 
Lind's  voice  was  the  hand  of  her  genius.  It  is  not  so  much 
any  one  thing,  as  the  charm  of  her  entire  personality 
which  makes  her  greatness.  She  acts  as  well  as  she  sings, 
and  both  acting  and  singing  are  only  flowers  of  a  life 
which  is  deep  and  sweet  as  her  nature.  When  Alboni 
cannot  sing  she  will  be  only  a  memory.  But  any  present 
of  Jenny  Lind's  must  be  as  beautiful  as  any  past. 

Then  I  heard  Lablache,  great,  wonderful  man,  full  of 
fun,  full  of  sound,  the  largest  man  and  the  largest  voice 
in  the  world.  When  he  pours  it  out  you  forget  everything 
else.  The  theatre,  the  orchestra,  singers,  Alboni,  Ron- 
coni,  and  chorus  are  all  merged.  It  is  a  deluge  in  which  we 
are  all  lost.  But  he  is  too  good  an  artist,  too  much  a  lover 
of  music  ever  to  sport  wantonly  with  his  might.  He 
"roars  you  as  *t  were  any  sucking  dove,"  so  melodiously 
he  thunders.  And  such  ease  and  sweetness  withal,  and  so 
distinct  a  pronunciation,  that  you  feel  how  inadequate 
fame  is  to  really  great  and  good  things.  .  .  . 

Cerrito  dances  at  the  French  opera,  too,  with  her  re 
markable  husband  Saint-Leon.  They  have  produced  a 
ballet  called  "Le  violon  du  Diable"  in  which  they  both 


FLORENCE  AND  THE  BROWNINGS    167 

dance  and  he  plays  the  violin,  with  a  pathetic  power 
which  amazed  me.  I  was  not  surprised  to  hear  that  in 
Germany  he  had  been  entirely  a  musician.  He  is  a  man 
of  singular  talent,  and  is  the  only  male  dancer  that  is  not 
disgusting.  His  feats  are  wonderful,  and  better,  —  they 
are  graceful.  He  composed  the  ballet  which  is  full  of  deli 
cately  designed  tableaux.  One  I  remember  in  which  Cer- 
rito  stands  elevated  like  the  figure  of  Apollo  in  the 
"Aurora"  holding  high  the  golden  reins,  which  confine 
several  of  the  ballet  dancers,  while  others  surround  her 
as  the  hours.  She  is  most  feminine  and  fascinating.  Not 
queenly  like  Fanny  Ellsler,  nor  stately  like  Lucile  Grahn, 
nor  voluptuous  like  Carlotta  Grisi,  she  streams  like  sun 
shine  over  the  stage  rather  than  bounds,  and  is  always 
the  affectionate  woman. 

Rachel,  too,  in  the  intense  paroxysms  of  passionate 
tragedy,  is  terrible  and  sublime.  She  is  young  and  wasted 
and  her  eyes  are  worn  with  bitter  sorrow.  She  plays  in 
Racine's  tragedies,  which  are  Greek,  you  know,  and  as 
Phedre,  Rachel  is  marvellous.  It  is  the  pure  suffering 
woman,  but  a  woman  of  the  elder  Grecian  mould,  the 
victim  of  Fate,  and  of  a  passion  which  loses  her  soul. 
Rachel  is  young  and  slight.  Her  features  are  very  deli 
cate,  her  mouth  a  little  coarse,  and  her  figure  of  a  stately, 
proud  grace.  Her  voice  is  very  sweet  and  solemn  and 
still,  of  a  low  tone,  and  because  it  is  the  silence,  not  the 
sound  of  passion,  there  can  never  be  a  suspicion  of  rant. 
In  the  French  drama  the  unities  are  strictly  observed. 
The  curtain  never  falls,  the  attention  is  undistracted  to 
the  end.  Never  for  a  moment  is  she  other  than  the  person 
she  represents.  So  perfect  is  this  artistic  skill  that  I  can 
not  conceive  her  as  an  actual  Parisian  person.  If  I  think 
of  her,  my  imagination  recedes  over  great  waste  dead 
ages,  and  in  front  of  a  Grecian  or  Persian  temple,  like  the 


168     CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE   CRANCH 

genius  of  that  Fate,  tearless  because  too  terrible  for  tears, 
she  stands,  and  if  she  speaks,  it  is  like  the  Sphinx  speak 
ing  —  words,  coining  feelings,  of  which  we  suspect  the 
substance  from  the  mighty  shadow. 

.  .  .  Shall  you  certainly  go  as  soon  as  April?  Why  not 
wait  until  softer,  sweeter  May?  more  propitious  to  Medi 
terranean  voyaging.  Let  me  hear  at  least  a  month  before 
you  are  resolved  to  go,  that  I  may  come  and  have  some 
final  weeks  with  you,  and  so  get  myself  associated  with 
your  last,  as  your  first,  European  days.  It  would  be  good 
too  that  they  should  be  in  Florence.  If  you  can,  put  off 
Vallombrosa,  etc.,  until  I  can  go  with  you,  for  although  I 
cannot  promise  absolutely  to  come,  yet  it  is  rare  that  I 
hold  anything  so  near  my  heart  as  this  plan,  without  its 
being  warmed  into  life. 

Margaret  Fuller  to  Mrs.  C ranch 

ROME,  9th  March,  1849. 

I  was  very  glad  to  have  you  write  that  you  are  going 
home,  for,  though  I  sympathize  most  deeply  with  any  one 
who  is  fitted  to  prize  Italy  and  has  to  leave  her,  and  know 
how  much  I  shall  suffer  myself,  yet  this  is  no  time  for  an 
artist  to  be  here,  nor  is  there  any  strong  probability  of 
tranquillity  at  present.  Few  people  would  come,  Pearse 
would  have  but  few  and  scanty  orders,  and  with  these 
two  young  children,  and  your  constitution  so  delicate, 
you  might  have  too  trying  a  time,  and  become  old !  That 
is  the  poison  of  care;  one  might  bear  the  strongest  dose, 
just  for  the  time,  but  it  makes  youth  grey-haired.  I  hope 
you  will  find  many  friends,  new  and  old,  who  will  carry 
about  Georgie  and  Nora  in  their  arms,  and  prize  the 
genius  of  Pearse  and  that  some  few  years  hence  you 
will  return,  under  happier  circumstances,  to  Venice,  to 
Florence,  to  Rome. 


FLORENCE  AND  THE  BROWNINGS    169 

O  Rome,  seat  of  the  gods!  I  do  regret  you  have 
not  been  here  this  winter  of  perpetual  sunshine.  The 
Cropseys  will  be  disappointed  at  not  finding  you.  They 
go  from  here  the  eighteenth,  and  Mr.  Cropsey  had  ex 
pected  to  enjoy  sketching  excursions  with  Pearse  in  the 
neighborhood  of  Florence.  .  .  . 

Also  I  hope  when  you  are  well  refreshed  at  home,  you 
will  write  me  a  joint  letter  telling  me  of  yourselves  and 
all  other  persons  and  things  you  think  will  interest  me. 
It  will  be  a  great  boon;  write  fine  and  much,  and  tell  me 
of  my  friend  Carrie  Tappan  anything  you  may  know.  I 
hear  little  from  herself.  If  you  do  write  me  a  line  now,  let 
me  know  how  it  has  gone  with  Mrs.  Browning.  I  am  very 
glad  you  had  such  pleasure  in  their  acquaintance;  a  little 
of  the  salt  of  the  earth  is  more  than  ever  needed  in  this 
hot  climate.  It  is  a  shame  I  cannot  have  the  "Bells."  It 
is  here  I  want  to  read  the  Italian  things  again,  half  mem 
ories  of  them  keep  tormenting  me. 

Pearse's  Colonna  poem  was  incorporated  into  one  of 
my  letters,  with  mention  of  the  picture,  and,  no  doubt, 
printed,  though  I  never  received  the  number  of  the 
"Tribune"  which  contained  it.  The  poem  from  Naples 
I  never  sent;  that  needs  the  clear  type  and  margins  of 
a  magazine,  or  perhaps  he  will  publish  a  volume  on  his 
return.  Now  you  are  going,  I  wish  you  would  send  me 
Emerson's  poems,  else  I  may  see  them  no  more  for  a  long 
time,  unless  you  have  made  pencil  marks,  or  for  some 
other  reason  are  anxious  to  keep  that  particular  copy. 

The  Storys  have  been  here  a  week,  after  a  doleful  de 
tention  at  Leghorn,  and  a  very  sick  night  on  the  steamer. 
They  have  a  tolerably  pleasant  apartment,  and  enjoy 
themselves  as  usual.  The  first  day  they  were  seeking  the 
apartment,  Sunday,  we  had  luncheon  at  Mr.  Crawford's 
and  afterwards  went  to  St.  Peter's  where  the  only  time 


170    CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 

this  winter  was  not  fine  music.  The  second  day,  I  passed 
with  them,  and  in  the  afternoon  we  walked  about  Villa 
Borghese;  Wednesday  evening  we  saw  the  Vatican  by 
torch  light;  it  is  now  my  third  enjoyment  of  this  always 
greater  delight.  Since,  I  have  not  seen  them. 

My  friend,  Mazzini,  is  now  here;  his  proper  great  occa 
sion  has  come  to  him  at  last,  whether  he  can  triumph  over 
the  million  difficulties  with  which  it  is  beset  I  know  not, 
but  he  will  do  all  that  may  become  a  man.  Good-bye,  and 
may  your  homeward  course  be  every  way  prosperous. 
We  shall  meet  again  probably  in  a  year  or  two,  meanwhile 
I  pray  you  keep  your  hearts  ever  open  for  your  friend 

MARGARET. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Cranch  and  the  nurse  and  children 
left  Florence  in  the  summer  for  Paris.  They  were 
rejoiced  to  meet  again  George  and  Burrill  Curtis  and 
Tom  Hicks.  The  cholera  was  raging  in  Paris,  two 
hundred  persons  dying  a  day.  They  were  careful 
about  exposing  themselves  to  the  sun,  and  of  their 
diet,  and  remained  well.  George  Curtis  accompanied 
them  to  Havre  and  to  the  ship,  seeing  them  aboard. 
Harriet,  the  black  nurse,  was  stricken  with  cholera. 
Here  was  a  quandary.  They  could  not  leave  her 
to  die  nor  be  sure  she  would  be  taken  aboard. 
The  captain  solved  the  difficulty  by  calling  it  in 
flammatory  rheumatism.  She  was  taken  aboard, 
isolated,  and  in  a  week  got  well. 

The  following  extracts  are  from  Mrs.  Cranch's 
Journal :  — 

July  8, 1849.  On  board  the  St.  Denis  on  our  homeward 
passage  from  Havre.  We  are  now  nearly  halfway  across 
the  ocean,  and  this  afternoon,  the  sea  being  tranquil,  I 
can  record  a  word  or  so  of  the  past.  .  .  .  We  arrived  in 


FLORENCE  AND  THE  BROWNINGS    171 

Paris  late  in  the  evening  of  the  1st  of  June,  after  riding  in 
diligence  all  through  France  by  night  and  day  with  our 
two  little  ones  .  .  .  never  shall  I  forget  our  satisfaction 
when  arriving  late  at  Paris  ...  we  found  George  and 
Hicks  waiting  for  us  at  the  diligence  office.  We  had 
nothing  to  do  but  to  get  into  a  carriage  and  ride  to  No.  50 
Rue  de  Rivoli,  where  were  rooms  all  ready  that  George 
had  taken  for  us  in  the  same  house  that  he  was  in;  and  a 
very  nice  one  too  it  was  —  just  opposite  the  garden  of  the 
Tuilleries  and  very  near  the  beautiful  Place  de  la  Con 
corde  and  the  Champs  Elysees,  where  we  used  to  walk  in 
the  cool  of  the  evening.  We  were  a  fortnight  in  Paris  and 
the  time  did  gallop  withal.  Good  times  were  those,  happy 
times  with  fun  and  frolic,  and  tender  moments  too  — 
never  to  be  forgotten. 


CHAPTER  X 

NEW    YORK 

THE  following  is  from  the  Autobiography:  — 

We  arrived  in  New  York  August  7,  1849,  after  a  pas 
sage  of  forty-seven  days.  I  shall  not  forget  how  particu 
larly  I  was  struck  with  the  American  faces  on  landing  at 
New  York.  I  never  before  saw  the  national  cast  of  fea 
tures.  Now  I  was  compelled  to  see  it,  in  spite  of  myself. 
It  seemed  as  if  I  had  arrived  among  a  new  people.  Among 
them  all  there  was  a  general  likeness,  as  typical  as  on  the 
faces  of  the  English,  Irish,  or  Italians.  There  was  a  cer 
tain  hard,  weary  expression  around  the  mouth,  a  quick 
shrewdness  of  eye,  a  solemn,  care-worn,  anxious  look,  as 
they  hurried  past  each  other.  Every  one  seemed  anxious 
and  worried  about  something. 

I  was  no  less  struck  with  the  want  of  manners  in  my 
countrymen.  What  a  contrast  to  the  Italians  and  French ! 

In  melancholy  keeping  with  the  people  seemed  the 
streets  and  houses.  How  did  Broadway  seem  shorn  of  its 
glory!  How  houses,  which  I  once  looked  upon  as  very 
large,  had  dwarfed  and  dwindled  away!  How  ugly 
seemed  all  the  buildings!  But  remember,  this  was  in 
1849,  and  the  improvements  in  all  these  things  have  been 
immense. 

Going  into  the  country,  as  we  did  after  landing,  the 
scenery  at  first  seemed  monotonous,  in  form  and  color. 
Italy  had  spoiled  me.  It  was  some  time  before  I  could 
discover  really  picturesque  material  in  the  landscape. 
One  thing,  however,  we  had  in  perfection  —  Sunsets  — 
such  as  one  never  sees  in  Europe. 


NEW  YORK  173 

We  all  went  up  to  Fishkill  to  the  Homestead,  and  to  A. 
J.  Downing's  at  Newburgh.  In  November  we  returned 
to  New  York,  and  took  rooms  with  some  friends  in  Mac- 
Dougal  Street.  My  studio,  if  I  remember,  was  in  Broad 
way,  corner  of  Houston  Street.  In  the  summer  I  was  in 
Sheffield,  Massachusetts,  where  I  made  a  visit  to  our 
friends  the  Deweys.  I  was  at  work  there  painting  out  of 
doors.  We  were  all  much  saddened  this  summer  by  the 
tragical  death  of  our  friend  Margaret  Fuller. 

in  1851  I  went  to  Lake  George  and  visited  Jervis 
McEntee  at  Rondout,  and  returned  with  him  and  a 
party  of  friends  to  Lake  Shawangunk,  now  called  Lake 
Mohunk.  My  wife  and  I  and  our  two  children  went  to 
Lenox,  Massachusetts,  in  the  summer  of  1852  and  had  not 
been  there  long  when  we  were  summoned  away  by  the 
sad  news  of  the  death  of  Lizzie's  mother,  and  of  her 
brother-in-law  A.  J.  Downing,  by  drowning  in  the  Hud 
son  River  in  the  disaster  to  the  steamboat  Henry  Clay, 
on  July  28. 

A  party  of  De  Windts  and  friends  left  Fishkill 
Landing  for  a  day's  excursion  on  the  beautiful  Hud 
son.  When  nearly  home,  the  boat  raced  another 
steamer,  and  must  have  burst  a  boiler,  for  Mrs.  De 
Windt  was  struck  and  carried  under,  causing  proba 
bly  instant  death.  Mr.  Downing  was  a  large  man 
and  a  fine  swimmer,  who  thought  nothing  of  swim 
ming  across  the  Hudson  River  and  back  again.  Un 
fortunately  a  stout  woman  clung  to  him  in  the  des 
perate  grasp  of  a  death-struggle,  and  he  was  helpless. 
His  wife  could  not  swim.  She  and  her  sister,  Mary 
De  Windt,  were  assisted  with  a  chair  and  a  board 
and  floated  safely  to  shore.  Frank  de  Windt,  then 
about  sixteen  years  old,  was  in  the  party.  When  the 


174    CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE   CRANCH 

bodies  were  brought  ashore,  Mr.  De  Windt  was 
stunned  by  the  blow.  He  paced  up  and  down  all  day 
and  all  night,  finding  it  difficult  to  realize  this  great 
affliction,  coming  so  suddenly  upon  him. 

This  home,  my  father  and  mother,  George  Curtis, 
and  others  often  visited.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Downing 
were  ideal  hosts.  Mr.  Downing  was  a  man  of  rare 
taste  and  judgment  in  art,  and  my  aunt  was  an  ex 
cellent  housekeeper,  having,  besides,  wit  and  intel 
ligence.  Mr.  Downing  was  able  to  carry  out  his  own 
aesthetic  ideas  in  his  grounds  and  in  his  house.  My 
mother  used  to  tell  me  how  he  would  place  a  bunch 
of  flowers  at  each  guest's  plate  for  breakfast.  These 
were  always  selected  with  reference  to  the  prefer 
ences  of  his  friends  for  certain  flowers,  and  his  nice 
discrimination  and  knowledge  of  their  characters. 
To  the  tender-hearted  he  offered  tea-roses  and 
honeysuckle,  to  the  modest  and  shy,  violets  and 
pansies,  to  the  brilliant  and  gay,  crimson  roses, 
marigolds,  asters,  carnations,  etc. 

When  the  gates  of  his  villa  closed,  —  it  was  a 
palace  and  garden  all  in  one,  —  all  care  and  trouble 
were  shut  out,  all  joy  and  pleasure  shut  in.  Instead 
of  Dante's  motto  over  the  gates  of  "Inferno," 
"Leave  all  hope,  ye  who  enter  here!"  it  was,  "Leave 
all  care  and  tribulation,  ye  who  enter  here!"  Like 
unto  heaven  it  was!  Enter  into  the  fulness  of  joy 
and  harmony  thereof !  To  my  mother  it  was  a  para 
dise  where  friends  met  congenial  friends,  and  where 
the  feast  of  reason  and  flow  of  soul  mingled  with 
delicately  seasoned  meats,  fruits  and  wines. 

A  monument  to  the  talent  of  Mr.  A.  J.  Downing 
was  later  erected  in  Newburgh  by  his  friends  and 
admirers.  His  loss  was  one  the  general  public  felt 


NEW  YORK  175 

to  be  great,  his  talents  lifting  him  above  ordinary 
men. 

The  Autobiography  continues:  — 

In  1853,  at  Fishkill  Landing,  May  7,  was  born  our 
daughter  Caroline  Amelia,  named  after  her  grandmother 
Mrs.  De  Windt.  We  were  then  living  in  the  little  house 
called  The  Bothie.  During  this  summer  I  made  a  visit  to 
Niagara  to  my  friend  Peter  A.  Porter,  of  two  or  three 
weeks,  and  made  several  careful  studies  of  the  Falls. 

This  year  we  received  two  letters  from  the  Brownings. 
The  first  was  addressed  to  me,  the  second  to  Lizzie.  They 
were  written  on  the  same  sheet  of  paper,  both  in  micro 
scopic  hands,  to  which  they  were  somewhat  necessitated, 
as  their  letters  were  enclosed  to  me  in  one  from  Story. 

W.  W.  Story  to  Mr.  Cranch 

VIENNA,  October  27,  1849. 

Through  George  Curtis  I  have  just  heard  of  your  arri 
val  at  New  York,  with  divers  perils  by  sea  and  land. 
Thank  Heaven  that  all  is  then  well  with  you,  and  that 
you  are  among  friends  and  kindred.  Up  to  the  moment 
of  your  departure  I  was  fully  informed  of  all  that  occurred 
by  George  C.,  and  it  was  with  the  truest  sympathy  and 
anxiety  that  my  thoughts  accompanied  you  across  the 
water.  Bravo,  then,  old  Ebony !  She  would  not  die.  She 
had  no  idea  of  shuffling  off  her  black  mortal  coil  so  easily. 
That's  what  it  is  to  have  a  servant  of  determination  and 
character.  .  .  . 

How  then  does  America  seem  to  you  after  Italy?  Is  it 
dull,  stupid,  prosaic  and  boastful,  or  does  it  seem  to  have 
compensations  for  this  utter  unpicturesqueness  of  life? 
Are  the  sunsets  on  the  Hudson  finer  —  I  think  they  are 
—  than  those  we  saw  at  Sorrento  last  year?  But  the 
breath  of  orange  flowers,  dear  Pearse,  the  Loggia  where 


176    CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 

we  used  to  sit,  —  old  Vesuvius'  perturbed  spirit  —  Capri, 
the  dim,  purple,  island  Sphinx.  These  you  have  not. 
These  I  have  not,  except  in  memory.  And  Rome,  my 
dear  friend,  Rome,  does  not  that  seem  to  you  ideal  now? 
It  does  to  me.  Good  Heavens,  when  I  was  last  there,  I 
grew  to  it  as  to  a  mistress !  There  seemed  an  inspiration 
in  its  air.  I  could  not  but  weep  to  leave  it. 

Pray,  write,  and  encourage  me  about  home  —  for  now 
I  begin  to  fear  that  I  shall  not  be  contented  at  home.  Yes 
indeed,  I  begin  seriously  to  consider  whether  Rome  is  not 
the  true  home  for  me.  Were  it  not  for  its  climate  I  should 
not  hesitate.  Yet  home  is  a  clinging  prejudice. 

I  stayed  in  Florence  a  week  —  it  was  intensely  hot  and 
filled  with  Austrian  soldiers,  and  them  I  could  not  bear  to 
see.  From  Florence  we  went  to  Milan.  In  Parma  I  saw 
Correggio  in  his  glory.  I  had  no  idea  of  his  magnificence 
before.  Such  color,  —  clear,  delicate  yet  strong,  and  lu 
minous;  light  and  yet  warm,  rich  and  yet  soft  and  ten 
der,  never  in  the  least  gaudy,  yet  full-toned  and  powerful, 
- 1  never  saw.  His  frescoes  are  wonderful,  and  though 
injured,  are  worth  crossing  the  Atlantic  to  see.  I  had 
expected  sweetness  and  delicacy,  but  I  was  unprepared 
for  the  grandeur  of  him,  the  largeness  of  form,  the  breadth 
and  power  of  his  works.  His  Madonna  della  Scodella  and 
St.  Gerome  are  quite  unequalled  by  anything  I  ever  saw. 
The  young  Christ  in  the  former  is  divine.  He  is  one  of 
those  blossoms  of  truth  and  innocence,  which  in  rarest 
moments  and  under  happiest  auspices,  we  see  for  a  mo 
ment  on  the  tree  of  humanity,  a  child  angel,  with  a  smile 
that  realizes  heaven  on  earth.  Basta!  I  could  write  a 
quire  on  the  subject! 

From  Milan  to  Vevay  and  Geneva,  then  to  Interlaken, 
where  we  fixed  ourselves  for  the  summer,  and  had  George 
Curtis  with  us,  and  an  agreeable  company.  From  here 


NEW  YORK  177 

Curtis,  Bliss  and  I,  went  over  the  Oberland  Bernese,  on 
foot  with  our  knapsacks  on  our  backs.  I  will  not  rush  into 
raptures,  —  you  can  imagine  all  better  than  I  can  tell. 
It  was  more  than  I  had  dared  hope,  and  after  the  luxuries 
of  art  in  Italy  it  was  a  striking  change,  to  come  at  once 
into  the  wild  sublimity  of  nature.  What  themes  for  pencil 
and  brush  are  here!  How  many  times  I  wished  I  could 
summon  you  to  my  side,  as  I  looked  over  these  Alpine 
heights,  where  beauty  and  grandeur  live  so  strangely 
together.  George  was  an  admirable  companion,  always 
sympathizing,  ready  to  admire,  indefatigable  —  ever 
good  natured,  ever  interesting.  It  was  a  real  joy  to  meet 
him  and  know  him,  and  see  him  three  months  together. 
At  Geneva,  George  left  me,  to  go  with  Quincy  Shaw 
towards  the  East,  and  I  returned  to  Interlaken.  From 
Interlaken,  when  the  summer  was  ended,  E.  and  I  and 
the  children  took  our  course  down  the  Rhine  to  Baden- 
Baden  and  Heidelberg,  then  struck  across  to  Munich, 
and  thence  down  the  Danube  to  Vienna,  where  we  are 
now.  .  .  . 

I  found  the  Germans  very  polite,  social  and  agreeable. 
Travelling  here  is  wondrous  easy  after  the  toiling  vettura 
and  the  cheating  Italian  mob.  But  one's  money  here 
eats  dreadful  holes  in  the  pockets.  Everything  is  expen 
sive.  The  prices  are  at  least  double  what  they  are  in 
Italy.  Of  music,  we  have  concerts  nearly  every  evening 
by  Straus's  band  and  others. . . .  Never  was  there  a  people 
for  eating  like  this.  The  restaurateur  is  an  essential  por 
tion  of  every  festival  meeting.  Eating,  smoking,  drinking 
of  beer  and  wine  seems  an  absolutely  necessary  accom 
paniment  of  music,  and  oftentimes  the  smoke  of  cigars  in 
the  concert  or  ball  rooms  is  suffocating.  They  shut  up 
every  window,  heat  up  the  room,  light  their  cigars,  —  off 
goes  the  band  in  a  whisking  waltz,  and  the  Vienner  is  a 


178    CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 

happy  man.  Here  is  there  an  immense  deal  to  see  in  the 
way  of  art.  The  picture  galleries  are  numerous  and  very 
rich.  The  finest  Murillos  I  have  ever  seen  are  here,  and 
some  fine  Correggios  and  Raffaelles,  and  some  pictures 
by  Rubens  which  astonished  me  by  their  magnificence  of 
color  and  tremendous  energy.  But  despite  all  the  objects 
of  interest,  and  the  social  gaiety,  and  amusements  of  the 
people,  I  pine  for  Italy.  I  do  not  like  the  subserviency 
here  to  the  sword  and  gilt-lace  uniform.  The  streets 
swarm  with  officers  and  soldiers,  and  I  think  often  of 
poor,  oppressed  Italy.  Radetsky  is  here,  —  a  little  red- 
eyed  man  —  and  Jellachich  is  in  the  same  house  with  us. 
The  Emperor,  a  youth  of  nineteen,  we  see  constantly  at 
the  theatre  and  on  the  streets. 

At  Munich  I  was  delighted.  It  is  most  grateful  to  one's 
eyes  to  see  what  the  late  King  has  done  here  for  art.  The 
whole  city  has  been  renewed  and  built  in  the  best  taste, 
and  here  is  the  centre  of  the  new  German  School  of 
Painting.  .  .  .  Art  here  is  at  least  alive,  and  struggling  for 
existence,  and  the  patronage  is  enormous  and  unbigoted. 
Every  artist  has  had  his  chance.  .  .  . 

In  a  day  or  two  we  are  off  to  Venice,  which  after  so  long 
waiting  for,  I  shall  at  last  see! 

To  his  brother  Edward 

SHEFFIELD,  BERKSHIRE  Co.,  MASS., 
August  25,  1850. 

What  has  become  of  our  promises  and  vows?  Swal 
lowed  up  in  the  wide  sea  of  circumstances;  swamped  and 
foundered  in  the  bogs  of  procrastination;  lost  in  the  fogs 
of  absence,  distance,  separation;  or  stranded  high  and 
dry  on  the  rocks  of  labor  and  occupation?  The  spirit  of 
epistolary  correspondence  has  clean  died  out  of  us,  and 
the  body  must  be  set  agoing,  if  not  by  a  new  soul,  then  by 


NEW  YORK  179 

spasmodic  galvanic  shocks.  So  here  goes  for  a  small  bat 
tery,  dead  or  alive.  .  .  . 

I  intend  this  as  simply  a  leaf  torn  from  the  volume  of 
my  present  life.  I  have  not  really  the  patience  to  post  up 
past  accounts.  It  is  sufficient  to  say  that  I  am  here,  fam 
ily  and  all,  boarding  in  this,  greatest  of  little  Sunday- 
go-to-meeting  villages,  amid  very  nice  scenery,  and  here 
have  been,  over  a  month.  I  first  came  alone,  and  made  a 
visit  to  the  Deweys,  who  live  here;  then  came  Lizzie, 
the  children,  and  maid,  and  took  board  in  a  quiet,  nice 
family,  where  we  shall  continue  till  about  September 
first.  Then  I  shall  go  to  Catskill  Clove  with  Mr.  Durand. 
I  have  been  working  out  of  doors,  as  steadily  as  circum 
stances  will  permit.  Whenever  it  does  not  rain,  I  am 
usually  out  painting.  I  have  improved,  I  think,  in  paint 
ing  from  nature,  since  I  saw  you.  My  pictures  in  the 
Academy  Exhibition  last  spring  were  favorably  noticed, 
and  one  of  them  bought  by  the  Art  Union.  It  was  on  the 
strength  of  them,  most  probably,  that  I  was  elected  an 
associate  of  the  Academy. 

I  should  like  to  hear  from  you,  how  you  are  getting  on. 
Are  you  driven  as  much  as  ever?  Do  you  get  time  for 
anything  but  work?  Write  me,  but  don't  write  in  the 
vein  of  your  letter  of  last  winter.  I  don't  like  to  think  that 
your  theory,  or  your  life,  should  be  all  sacrificed,  made  up 
of  nothing  but  duty.  Or  at  least  I  want  to  hear  some  time 
that  your  duty  and  your  inclinations  both  point  in  the 
same  direction.  O,  why  were  you  not  an  artist;  or  a  lit 
erary  man,  or  an  editor,  or  a  farmer;  or  anything  for 
which  God  and  nature  fitted  you,  rather  than  a  lawyer? 
Somewhere  in  those  vocations  lies  your  proper  sphere. 
But  fate  has  driven  you  from  the  lines  of  intellectual 
attraction,  and  made  your  life  that  of  a  mill  wheel  and 
a  cart  horse.  Will  it  not  be  some  time  or  other  that  you 


180    CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE   CRANCH 

will  burst  from  that  chrysalis  state,  of  court-room  pen- 
drudgery  and  law  books,  and  spread  your  wings,  never  to 
fold  them  again  in  the  old  cocoon  prison?  Such  talents, 
such  a  nature,  intellectual  and  moral,  and  affectional,  and 
humorsome,  every  way  rare,  as  yours,  should  find  its 
sphere,  and  there  should  be,  now,  people  who  would  so 
appreciate  them,  that  they  could  create  such  a  sphere  for 
you.  I,  for  one,  hope  to  live  to  see  your  emancipation.  I 
pray  Heaven  it  may  come  quickly. 

W.  W.  Story  to  Mr.  Cranch 

BOSTON,  December  25,  1850. 

Your  warm,  kind,  affectionate  greeting  to  America 
ought  long  ago  have  been  answered,  but  I  had  hoped, 
long  ere  this  to  have  clasped  your  hand  and  looked  into 
your  eyes,  and  travelled  back  with  you  on  the  wings  of 
spoken  words  to  our  dear  old  Italy.  Fate,  however,  — 
whose  American  name  is  business  —  has  bound  me  here 
hand  and  foot,  and  I  know  not  that  I  shall  be  able  to 
carry  out  my  project  of  visiting  your  New  York  this 
winter.  .  .  .  Dear  Pearse,  if  I  thought  I  should  never 
again  go  to  the  other  and  better  world  —  I  mean  Italy,  — 
I  think  life  would  merit  Mr.  Mantilini's  description  and 
be  a  "demd  horrid  grind."  A  barrel  organ  with  a  boy  who 
smiles  Italian,  is  all  the  trace  of  those  soft  skies  beneath 
which  we  lived  so  happily  together,  which  even  now 
greets  my  eyes.  The  mania  which  possesses  all  here,  has 
possessed  me,  despite  my  best  effort.  I  am  at  work  in  the 
law  —  fearfully  at  work.  No !  My  dear  friend,  not  per 
manently  —  God  forbid  —  temporarily  is  bad  enough. 
It  was  in  this  way  that  I  fell  into  the  pit.  Walking  down 
Washington  street  a  few  days  after  my  arrival,  I  stopped 
in  to  see  how  the  inside  of  Little  &  Brown's  bookshop 
looked,  little  knowing  that  I  was  putting  my  head  into  a 


NEW  YORK  181 

lion's  den.  Mr.  Brown  pounced  upon  me,  seized  me,  car 
ried  me  into  his  interior  den,  told  me  that  my  book  on  Con 
tracts  and  the  Commentaries  on  the  Constitution  must 
at  once  be  edited  and  that  I  must  do  it.  I  remonstrated. 
In  vain !  I  sat  me  down  in  a  little  back  room,  and  I  have 
been  his  slave  for  two  months.  Now  in  two  days  I  am 
free,  having  done  incredible  work.  One  has  a  sort  of  fool 
ish  pride  in  one's  literary  offspring.  My  law  books  had 
succeeded,  and  paid  well,  and  made  me  a  hero  —  when  I 
was  n't  known  —  and  I  could  not  allow  a  new  edition  to 
go  forth  without  improving  it  all  in  my  power.  And  this 
pride  has  cost  me  two  months.  Now,  my  biography  of 
my  father  awaits  me,  and  this  must  be  done  at  once. 
Then  I  shall  be  free  for  art,  and  art  it  shall  be  for  my  life. 

I  examined  and  cross-examined  Dwight  about  all  you 
boys,  and  especially  about  Lizzie  and  you  and  the  chil 
dren.  He  gave  good  accounts  of  you,  but  all  that  he  said 
only  increased  my  appetite  for  you.  I  want  to  ask  you 
truly  how  you  get  along,  and  whether  the  wheels  turn 
easily  or  not,  and  whether  I  can  do  anything  for  you. 
You  know,  or  ought  to  know,  that  you  ought  never  to 
need  when  I  can  help  you.  My  purse,  my  dear  friend,  is 
ever  at  your  service.  Let  us  spend  together  and  make  life 
as  happy  as  we  can.  You  will  not  be  vexed  at  this  sug 
gestion,  I  feel.  I  don't  know  why  there  should  ever  be 
any  shamefacedness  about  such  matters.  If  fortune  has 
been  better  friends  with  me  than  you,  she  makes  me  her 
agent  to  give  to  those  whom  I  love.  .  .  . 

Lizzie's  very  pleasant  note  reached  Emelyn  the  other 
day,  and  we  both  were  delighted  to  hear  from  her.  I  hope 
she  still  keeps  us  in  green  remembrance,  which  being  in 
terpreted  means,  that  she  remembers  all  the  good  and 
forgets  all  the  bad.  Perhaps  Emelyn  may  go  with  me  to 
New  York,  if  the  weather  looks  more  subdued  and  gentle. 


182    CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 

I  do  not  at  all  stand  this  climate.  I  break  all  to  pieces, 
before  these  sharp  winds.  There  seems  to  be  no  atmos 
phere,  and  the  sunshine  is  so  white  and  glittering  and 
ghastly,  that  it  seems  as  if  it  had  lost  its  soul.  The  shad 
ows  are  all  so  thin  and  weak  and  grey;  the  light  so  color 
less;  the  lines  of  architecture  so  sharp  and  hard;  all  things 
so  liney  and  wanting  in  tone,  that  it  seems  to  me  as  if 
America  had  been  bewitched  during  my  absence.  There 
is  nothing  which  has  come  up  to  my  recollections  except 
the  conflagrations  in  the  clouds  and  sky  at  sunset,  and 
the  autumn  hectic  in  the  forests.  Tone  to  a  landscape,  is 
what  sentiment  is  to  a  mistress,  and  it  is  just  this  lack  of 
tone  that  I  find  in  our  nature. 

The  cold  winds  and  the  tense  atmosphere,  have  been 
chiselling  me  down  and  channelling  out  the  old  furrows, 
which  when  I  returned  were  somewhat  blended.  I  grow 
older  here  in  a  month  than  in  a  year  abroad. 

To  the  Misses  Myers 

NEW  YORK,  June  22,  1851. 

I  am  such  an  old  hardened  sinner  that  I  have  long  ago 
given  up  all  hopes  of  pardon  from  you;  at  least,  I  should 
abandon  all  hope,  did  I  not  know  you  all  to  be  angels  of 
love  and  forgiveness.  .  .  .  We  are  the  creatures  of  cir 
cumstance,  there  is  no  use  in  denying  it,  and  yet  God 
forbid  that  beggarly  circumstance  should  have  power  to 
change  the  essence  of  the  soul.  That  remains  like  the 
sun,  moon  and  stars,  the  other  is  but  the  clouds.  And  I  am 
sure  that  you,  my  dear  friends  of  younger  days,  know 
me  too  well,  to  think  that  the  clouds  that  shut  us  out  from 
each  other  are  anything  but  unsubstantial  vapor. 

As  to  outward  events  they  are  unimportant.  In  No 
vember  we  were  settled  in  the  great  city,  where  we  have 
remained  ever  since.  My  health  and  that  of  my  wife  and 


NEW  YORK  183 

children  has  been  uninterrupted  by  any  sickness,  and  on 
the  whole  I  have  had  quite  a  good  time  —  grow  younger, 
if  anything,  in  my  feelings  and  habits  of  life,  work  at  my 
studio,  and  just  scratch  along,  poor  and  economical,  still 
surrounded  with  blessings  innumerable.  In  painting  I 
am  improving,  have  several  pictures  in  the  Exhibition, 
and  now  and  then,  like  angels'  visits,  fall  in  with  a  pur 
chaser.  In  this  country  Art  just  lives  —  it  is  far  from 
flourishing.  The  artist  has  need  of  all  his  courage  and 
patience  to  stick  to  his  vocation.  I  am  confident  there 
would  be  better  success  in  Italy,  and  had  I  means,  I 
should  go  there  again.  Here,  surrounded  by  a  selfish, 
commercial,  money  making,  rushing,  driving,  and  wholly 
conventional  community,  what  can  an  artist  do?  People 
when  they  do  find  time  amid  their  eternal  driving  and 
hurry-scurry  to  come  into  a  studio,  only  admire  and  go 
away  to  their  eternal  and  sempiternal  driving.  People  of 
fashion  and  so  called  taste  are  contented  to  do  this,  and 
go  home  to  their  palaces  and  sit  down  among  their  lux 
urious  easy  chairs  and  mirrors  and  curtains,  with  never  a 
picture  to  screen  the  nakedness  of  their  walls  —  not  so 
much  as  one  picture  even  in  the  way  of  furniture  —  that 
would  be  something.  Or  if  they  have  a  taste  this  way, 
they  expend  it  on  snuffy,  dingy,  old  copies  of  mediocre 
old  Masters.  So  it  goes! 

No  matter,  they  can't  magnetize  us  out  of  our  pro- 
prium,  our  essential  character.  They  can't  keep  us  from 
having  a  good  time  with  those  with  whom  we  sympa 
thize,  and  there  are  not  a  few  of  those  here,  and  we  can  at 
least  laugh  at  their  ridiculous  position,  when  their  backs 
are  turned,  even  if  they  do  tie  up  their  money  bags.  The 
sun  will  shine  spite  of  all  the  clouds. 

And  you  may  suppose  it  fares  pretty  much  with  poetry 
as  with  painting. 


184    CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE   CRANCH 

The  world  we  make  untunes  the  string 
On  which  the  poet  fain  would  sing. 
His  voice  is  dumb,  though  it  be  spring. 

Still,  verses  accumulate  somehow,  and  I  hope  by  next 
winter  to  have  out  a  new  volume  in  that  line,  consisting 
of  better  things  than  I  have  ever  published.  Then,  at 
least,  my  friends,  if  not  before,  you  will  hear  from  me. 
And  if  there  were  any  way  of  getting  a  little  picture  to 
you,  I  should  be  glad.  As  to  my  ever  coming  on  in  bodily 
presence  to  be  among  you,  I  see  no  chance  of  it,  "any 
way  I  can  fix  it."  I  have  not  even  visited  Washington 
since  my  return  to  America.  .  .  . 

As  for  music,  I  have  but  little  time  to  practise.  I  do 
little  beside  "voluntaries."  As  I  cannot  play  very  diffi 
cult  accompaniments,  I  sit  down  and  make  chords,  and 
extemporize,  or  sing  such  things  as  I  can  accompany, 
when  the  spirit  moves.  Neither  have  I  much  time  for 
books.  Had  I  entire  leisure  I  think  I  should  devote  my 
self  much  more  to  verse  than  anything  else.  I  have  a 
poem  on  this  theme,  which  some  day  you  will  see. 

To  Mrs.  Stearns 

NEW  YORK,  March  10,  1852. 

I  take  advantage  of  a  little  solitude  and  the  unwonted 
stillness  around  me  —  Lizzie  having  run  away  from  me 
to  Newburgh  with  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Downing,  and  taken 
Georgie  along  —  to  transcribe  the  long  promised  little 
Fir-tree  poem.1  And  though  I  have  nothing  especial  to 
say,  I  shall  add  a  short  letter  to  it. 

1  Translation  of  Heine's  Fichtenbaum :  — 

In  the  far  North  the  Fir  tree  stands, 

Lonely,  upon  a  craggy  height 
He  sleeps.    The  Alpine  ice  and  snow 

Spread  o'er  his  form  a  veil  of  white. 

He  sleeps,  and  of  the  Palm  he  dreams, 
Who,  far  away  in  the  Morning  land, 

Sorrows  in  silent  loneliness 
Upon  her  burning  hill  of  sand. 


NEW  YORK  185 

I  have  been  making  a  little  visit  to  Washington,  where 
I  had  not  been  for  nearly  six  years.  I  went  on  in  the 
Steamer  Baltic  and  returned  in  her,  as  correspondent  of 
the  "  New  York  Express."  The  trip  was  a  novel  thing, 
and  very  pleasant.  All  the  passengers  fared  sumptuously, 
free  of  expense,  and  the  magnificent  steamer  was  praised 
by  all  as  the  model  steamship  of  the  nineteenth  century. 
In  my  "  Express  "  letter,  I  called  her  one  of  the  modern 
Collins's  odes.  She  went  on  to  show  herself,  and  to  in 
terest  Congress  in  getting  an  appropriation,  but  was 
suddenly  called  back  to  go  to  England,  etc.  All  which,  is 
it  not  written  in  newspapers,  and  why  should  I  repeat  it? 

I  found  my  father  very  little  changed  in  appearance, 
but  exceedingly  feeble,  and  much  more  deaf  than  when  I 
saw  him  last.  He  does  not  even  walk  from  his  easy  chair 
to  his  bed  without  help,  and  has  not  left  his  room,  I 
think  for  a  year.  He  reads,  however,  all  day.  His  mind 
is  clear,  and  he  is  altogether  in  a  beautiful,  tranquil  state. 
It  was  a  great  blessing  to  me  to  see  him  once  more. 

I  have  been  making  verses  somewhat  of  late.  Have 
just  been  doing  something  meditative  and  metaphysical. 
Another  sort  of  poem  will  appear  soon  in  the  "  Tribune  " 
called  "Land  Owner  and  Brain  Owner."  I  cannot  say 
when  it  will  come  out.  They  have  had  it  this  month  on 
their  file.  Another  little  thing  I  have  just  thrown  off, 
which  I  will  send  you  on  another  page.  I  have  had  no 
chance  to  read  it  to  any  one  yet,  not  even  Lizzie,  who  has 
gone  away.  It  is  a  sort  of  Goethian-Emersonian  senti 
ment  perhaps,  with  a  truth  at  the  bottom  of  it. 

THE  FLOWER  AND  THE  BEE 

Love  me  as  the  flower  loves  the  bee. 
Ask  no  monopoly  of  sympathy. 

I  must  flit  by, 
Nor  stay  to  heave  too  deep  a  sigh, 


186    CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE   CRANCH 

Nor  dive  too  deep  into  thy  charms. 
Untwine  thy  prisoning  arms; 

Let  the  truth-garnering  bee 

Pass  ever  free! 

Yield  all  the  thymy  fragrance  I  can  draw 

From  out  thy  soul's  rich  sweetness.  Not  forever 
Can  lovers  see  one  truth,  obey  one  law, 

Though  they  spend  long  endeavor. 
Give  me  thy  blossoming  heart; 
I  can  but  take  thereof  that  part 
Which  grand  Economy 
Permitteth  me  to  see. 

Friendship  and  love  may  last  in  name, 

As  lamps  outlive  their  flame; 
An  earthly  tie  may  bind  our  hands; 

The  spirit  snaps  the  bands. 
If  Nature  made  us  different, 
Our  compliments  in  vain  are  spent; 
But  if  alike,  ah,  then  I  rest  in  thee 
As  in  the  flower's  full  heart  the  sated  bee. 


W.  W.  Story  to  Mr.  Cranch 

ROME,  March  17,  1852. 

Returning  this  morning  at  two  o'clock  after  a  long 
stroll,  with  Black  and  James  Lowell  to  the  Pantheon  and 
Piazza  Navona,  it  being  the  regular  fair-day  at  the  latter 
place,  I  found  your  delightful  letter,  breathing  warmly  of 
you  and  Lizzie,  and  I  cannot  but  answer  it  at  once,  any 
more  than  if  you  were  to  hold  out  your  hand,  I  could 
refuse  to  take  it  and  give  it  the  heartiest  of  shakes.  I 
would  that  I  could  transport  to  you  in  this  letter  in  some 
condensed  form,  a  portion  of  this  "incense  breathing 
morn,"  of  this  peerless  blue  sky,  of  this  delicious  light 
which  hangs  over  Rome  and  the  Campagna,  and  trans 
figures  with  its  tender  distances  and  bloom  the  snowy 
amphitheatre  of  hills.  Ma  come  si  fa.  If  I  had  the  How- 
adji's  pen  to  dip  into  all  sorts  of  lexicons  of  language  and 


NEW  YORK  187 

feeling,  perhaps  —  but  with  the  same  old  pen  which  I 
have  half  used  up  in  the  law  —  and  by  strange  chance  it 
is  one  of  those  with  which  I  wrote  of  such  matter  in 
America  —  how  be  poetical  or  graceful!  Dear  old 
Cranchio,  come  hither  and  breathe  this  atmosphere  with 
me! 

Lent  is  passing  gaily  away;  four  Cardinals  have  been 
newly  created  and  during  the  whole  of  this  week  are  re 
ceiving  at  the  palaces,  where  the  Roman  Princesses  gleam 
and  flash  with  tiaras  and  necklaces  of  diamonds  that 
dazzle  the  eye  with  their  splendor.  The  night  before  last 
we  were  at  the  Sciarra,  the  Colonna,  the  Santa  Croce, 
and  the  display  of  jewels  was  such  as  I  never  saw  before. 
.  .  .  Curious  enough  was  it  to  see  in  the  ante-room  the 
cloven  foot  of  this  splendor,  in  the  shape  of  a  scrivano 
taking  down  all  the  names  as  they  were  announced,  in 
order  to  call  for  a  buona  mano  to-morrow.  At  the  Colonna 
Palace  the  French  Ambassador  received,  a  French  Car 
dinal  having  been  created.  The  scene  was  splendid  in 
those  towering  rooms,  but  I  experienced  a  revulsion  of 
rage  and  disgust,  when  on  passing  to  the  last  salon,  I 
found  displayed  on  the  table,  pictures  representing  the 
battles  of  the  Roman  Revolution;  after  so  gratuitous  an 
insult  to  the  sensibilities  of  every  true  lover  of  liberty, 
and  especially  of  every  Italian,  I  could  remain  no 
longer.  .  .  . 

The  other  evening,  and  without  our  desire  or  request, 
came  a  summons  to  the  Pope,  and  accordingly  we  had  an 
audience  at  the  Vatican.  He  was  very  affable  and  pleas 
ant,  and  has  an  attractiveness  of  face  and  manner  which 
shows  a  good  heart.  Poor  Pio  Nono !  He  took  snuff  con 
stantly,  dropping  it  on  his  white  dress,  and  after  inform 
ing  me  that  steamers  could  go  from  New  York  to  Liver 
pool  in  fifteen  days,  inquired  whether  they  stopped  for 


188    CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE   CRANCH 

coal  on  their  passage.  He  also  announced  to  me  that 
Boston  was  the  greatest  city  in  America,  therefore  you 
see  that  that  question  is  settled  forever.  .  .  . 

Of  my  own  doings  in  art,  a  little  will  suffice.  I  have 
made  my  last  study  for  the  large  statue  of  my  father,  and 
my  friends  like  it;  at  all  events,  it  is  far  the  best  thing  I 
have  done.  I  am  now  waiting  to  procure  a  fitting  studio 
to  execute  it  in  large.  I  have  also  made  a  statuette  of  the 
Lorelei,  for  which  I  have  a  commission.  Orders  have  been 
plenty  in  Rome  this  winter  as  I  understand,  and  Ameri 
cans  particularly  are  purchasing  works  by  modern  artists. 
This  is  as  it  should  be.  ... 

We  are  here  full  of  theatricals,  and  the  "Midsum 
mer-Night's  Dream"  having  succeeded  so  perfectly,  are 
at  work  in  bringing  out  the  "Merchant  of  Venice."  Eme- 
lyn  is  Jessica;  Black,  Bassanio;  Lowell,  Lorenzo;  Mrs. 
Raikes,  Portia;  and  I,  Shylock.  Black  is  stage  struck. 
He  eats,  drinks  and  sleeps  on  theatricals.  The  day  before 
yesterday  we  were  at  the  Villa  Borghese,  which  was  as 
lovely  as  ever,  with  its  lofty  umbrella  pines,  its  dark 
green  ilexes,  its  fountains  and  shadowy  woods.  To-day  we 
are  planning  for  the  Villa  Albani,  and  what  a  day  it  is, 
the  air  all  music  and  perfume  with  birds  and  flowers,  and 
a  cloudless  sky!  Boott  says  good-bye  to  us  and  is  off 
to-day  for  Florence,  which  he  still  persists  in  preferring 
to  Rome,  with  his  cast-steel  determination.  We  had  a 
grand  musical  soiree  here  in  our  rooms  the  other  day,  with 
Puggi's  oboe,  Ramacciotti's  violin,  Wichmann  on  the 
pianoforte,  and  Rhienthaler's  songs,  and  among  other 
things  we  had  a  stringed  quartette  of  Boott's  admirably 
performed.  It  was  certainly  a  triumph  for  him,  and  I  am 
delighted  to  say  to  you,  that  it  was  full  of  science  and 
freshness  of  fancy.  The  themes  were  original  and  naive, 
and  the  condotta  clear  and  unconfused.  It  quite  surprised 


BAYARD   TAYLOR,   1864 


NEW  YORK  189 

me  by  its  merit,  and  its  piquancy  and  spirit  gained  for  it 
an  unanimous  applause.  Just  where  young  composers 
fail,  he  succeeded,  in  the  management  of  its  partition  and 
the  development  of  his  theme.  .  .  . 

In  the  Autobiography,  Mr.  Cranch  makes  this 
entry :  — 

It  was  in  the  summer  of  the  year  1853,  that  I  had  the 
honor  of  writing  the  "Farewell  to  America,"  for  young 
Jenny  Lind  —  Madame  Goldschmidt  —  at  her  last  ap 
pearance  in  this  country.  Bayard  Taylor  had  written  her 
song  of  greeting.  When  the  great  singer  was  looking  for 
some  one  to  write  her  "Farewell,"  my  friend  Mr.  Ed- 
mond  Benzon  mentioned  to  her  my  name,  and  I  was 
asked  to  be  her  poet.  I  appreciated  the  honor,  and  wrote 
these  three  stanzas,  which  Mr.  Goldschmidt  set  to  music. 
By  appointment  I  called  one  morning  on  Madame  Gold 
schmidt,  so  that  I  might  have  an  idea  of  the  melody 
before  completing  the  lines,  and  she  sang  them  for  me 
at  the  piano,  sotto  voce.  The  words  seemed  to  please  her 
very  much. 

Young  land  of  Hope,  fair  Western  Star, 
Whose  light  I  hailed  from  climes  afar, 

I  leave  thee  now,  but  twine  for  thee 
One  parting  wreath  of  melody. 

O  take  the  offering  of  the  heart 

From  one  who  feels  't  is  sad  to  part. 

And  if  it  be  that  strains  of  mine, 

Have  glided  from  my  heart  to  thine, 

My  voice  was  but  the  breeze  that  swept 
The  spirit  chords  that  in  thee  slept. 

The  music  was  not  all  my  own, 

Thou  gavest  back  the  answering  tone. 

Farewell!  When  other  scenes  shall  rise, 

To  greet  once  more  the  wanderer's  eyes, 


190    CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 

Remembrance  still  will  turn  to  thee, 

When  throbs  my  heart  across  the  sea. 

Bright  Freedom's  clime,  I  feel  thy  spell 
But  I  must  say,  "Farewell,  farewell!" 

That  night  Jenny  Lind  was  in  splendid  voice,  and 
carried  the  poet's  words,  up  on  her  clear  tones,  to  great 
heights  of  melody  and  feeling.  As  usual  with  this  great 
singer,  there  was  a  furor  of  applause.  To  the  poet  and 
his  friends,  it  was  a  memorable  evening. 

To  his  brother  Edward 

FISHKILL  LANDING,  N.Y.,  July  10,  1853. 

...  I  have  thought  of  you  much  and  with  some  anxiety 
since  your  trouble  with  your  eyes  and  your  relinquish- 
ment  of  the  law.  I  feel  glad  somehow  to  know  that  there 
is  a  prospect  of  your  escape,  even  though  it  be  like  a  man 
in  his  shirt  escaping  from  his  house  on  fire  —  from  the 
dungeon  of  the  Doubting-Castle,  Law,  —  which  you 
should  never  have  entered,  and  would  not,  had  you  not, 
like  Christian,  been  caught  sleeping,  i.e.  not  fully  awake 
at  the  time,  to  what  your  sphere  should  be.  ... 

What  a  hard  thing  this  is,  and  hard  it  is  not  to  grumble 
at  it  all  the  time,  that  in  nine  cases  out  of  ten  a  man  must 
turn  away  his  eyes  from  beholding  the  vanity  and  folly  of 
the  course  for  which  nature  fashions  him,  and  to  which 
all  good  angels  seem  to  be  urging  him,  if  he  wants  to  make 
a  living,  and  dig  at  something  else,  —  plunge  into  some 
ditch  where  he  is  muddied  from  top  to  toe.  .  .  . 

I  grow  thoroughly  discouraged  sometimes,  of  late  very 
much  so,  at  the  miserable  prospects  of  landscape  painting, 
among  us.  And  yet,  I  don't  see  anything  better  for  me. 
I  have  strong  twitches  sometimes  towards  authorship, 
and  even  indulge  occasionally  in  verse,  but  unless  a  man 
is  sure  of  a  great  reputation  as  a  writer,  what  stimulus  is 


NEW  YORK  191 

there,  what  reward?  No,  better  keep  on,  hopefully. 
Painting  is  no  worse  than  article  writing,  and  does  not 
rack  the  brain,  but  is  always  "attractive  labor,"  which  is 
a  great  thing  in  its  favor.  And  if  a  man  can  only  live, 
with  wife  and  children,  why,  let  him  have  as  good  a  time 
of  it,  I  say,  as  he  can  in  this  brief  lifetime.  And  in  this 
way  one  keeps  young. 

And  so  we  Cranches  are  rejoicing  in  the  abundance  of 
our  riches,  having  actually  received  legacies,  not  in 
dreams  but  good,  tangible,  bankable  money;  a  thing  as 
unlocked  for  by  me  as  the  Chinese  or  Viennese  Revolu 
tion.  Rest  to  his  shade,  the  venerable  uncle  did  some 
good  to  his  deserving  relatives,  and  we  will  not  say  grudg 
ingly,  that  he  might  have  done  more.  On  these  silver- 
tipped  wings  we  will  emerge,  as  long  as  we  may,  out  of 
the  brine  and  beyond  the  level  of  the  sea  of  poverty,  like 
flying  fish,  and  say  that  we  too  have  wings,  though  we  are 
not  birds  of  golden  plumage.  Providence  surely  takes 
care  of  us,  for  I  don't  see  what  I  should  have  done  without 
this  four  hundred  and  odd  dollars,  any  more  than  I  know 
what  I  can  do  without  just  as  much  a  year  hence,  which 
I  see  no  prospect  of  getting,  but  which  Providence,  I  dare 
say,  will  send. 

In  the  July  number  of  the  "Putnam's"  is  an  ode  to 
Southern  Italy,  of  mine.  I  shall  have  other  poems,  I  pre 
sume,  there  from  time  to  time.  You  see  "Putnam's,"  I 
hope.  I  think  it  is  the  best  American  magazine  we  have, 
by  a  great  deal.  My  friend  G.  W.  Curtis  is  one  of  the 
editors  and  writes  a  great  deal  for  it. 

I  hope  ere  long  to  bring  out  my  volume  of  poems.  It 
has  been  ready  for  publication  for  some  time,  but  I  have 
been  waiting  till  I  can  publish  on  good  terms  for  myself, 
and  perhaps  to  keep  pruning  at  it,  and  perhaps  omitting, 
and  perhaps  write  better  things.  I  often  feel  as  if,  give 


192    CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 

me  the  opportunity,  and  I  have  far  better  things  in  store 
to  be  written,  than  I  have  ever  done.  .  .  . 

W.  W.  Story  to  Mr.  Cranch 

BAGNI  DI  LUCCA,  August  22,  1853. 

Three  minutes  ago  I  was  seized  en  sursaut  with  a  desire 
to  communicate  with  you,  and  before  my  enthusiasm  evap 
orates  —  for  it  is  warm  weather  and  enthusiasm  as  well  as 
everything  else,  such  as  virtue,  water,  etc.,  easily  evapo 
rates  —  I  catch  it  and  stick  a  pin  through  it,  as  one  would 
transfix  a  butterfly.  Once  having  begun,  a  letter  is  an 
easy  and  necessary  consequence.  But  it  is  the  beginning 
"which  gives  us  pause."  Warned  also  by  a  death's-head 
moth  with  a  skull  and  cross  bones  distinctly  painted  on 
his  back,  which  is  now  leading  a  melancholy  life  under  a 
tumbler  on  my  table,  and  preaching  the  evanescence  of 
things,  I  feel  some  act  of  virtue  to  be  demanded  of  me. 
And  what  better  can  I  do  than  to  satisfy  my  conscience 
and  friendship  at  once  by  a  scribble  to  you?  Once  in  a 
while  dribbles  over  to  me  a  hint  of  you  and  George  and 
Hicks.  You  are  packed  closely  into  a  postscript  and 
transmitted  to  me  by  mail,  safe  and  sound,  and  I  am 
forced  out  of  such  little  shadings  of  information  to  build 
and  fashion  the  world  about  you.  This  is  not  quite  satis 
factory.  I  have  in  my  mind  when  I  think  of  you  all,  a  sort 
of  mixed  and  bewildered  idea  of  Nahant,  and  "Putnam's 
Magazine,"  and  Broadway,  and  paint  brushes  and 
palette,  and  Syria,  and  Rome,  and  "Here  is  the  lip  that 
betrayed."  l  All  my  ideas  are  about  as  confused  as  the 
languages  in  Roman  society.  .  .  . 

And  you,  who  were  once  a  Christian  minister,  to  forget 
the  Christian  rule  of  forgiveness  —  to  stand  away  there 
on  your  dignity  and  rights  and  never  write  to  me  because 
r  l  A  song  by  Richard  Willis  that  Mr.  Cranch  used  to  sing. 


NEW  YORK  193 

I  owed  you  a  letter.  You!  to  keep  an  account  current 
with  me  and  put  me  down  in  your  memory  with  "  a  bill  to 
debit  one  letter."  I  actually  blush  for  you  —  I  have  long 
ceased  to  perform  that  graceful  action  for  myself,  and 
reserve  it  entirely  for  my  friends  —  when  your  friend 
"Chose"  (I  never  remember  names),  presented  me  a 
rascally  note  of  only  four  lines,  and  in  those  four  lines 
nothing  but "  introduce,"  "  friend,"  "Century  Club,"  and 
such  kind  of  words.  I  declare  I  thought  you  worthy  to  be 
put  in  the  stocks  for  such  an  act.  ...  If  you  had  cause  of 
complaint  against  me  —  I  don't  deny  that  you  had  — 
why  did  you  not  pepper  me  with  letters  —  heap  coals  of 
fire  and  all  that  Christian  sort  of  thing  —  instead  of  sulk 
ing  into  silence  and  brooding  over  "bill  to  debit  —  one 
letter."  Fye  upon  you,  Heathen!  Pagan!  American! 
Well,  nevertheless,  I  forgive  you;  it 's  as  well  to  be  mag 
nanimous.  I  forgive  you;  there's  my  hand  to  kiss. 

Here  we  all  are  in  Lucca  at  the  Bagni  Caldi,  halfway 
up  the  Chestnut  mountains  where  the  breeze  blows  cold 
and  fresh,  and  where  the  summer  sun  basks  on  hillsides 
and  hanging  gardens  of  vines,  where  the  big  burry  chest 
nuts  do  not  grow  and  drop  their  green  porcupine  fruit 
upon  the  earth,  range  the  vineyards  in  terraces  and  give  a 
granulated  look  to  the  mountain.  We  look  down  upon  the 
red-tiled  tops  of  the  villages  and  villas  below,  and  see  the 
rushing  river,  the  only  discontented,  hurried  American- 
like  thing  near  us,  bubble  and  dash,  winding  through  the 
valley.  The  contadini  go  to  and  fro  and  up  and  down  the 
mountain  paths,  bearing  on  their  heads  great  buckets 
heaped  sometimes  with  charcoal,  and  sometimes  with 
strawberries,  apricots,  raspberries.  The  little  gray  don 
keys  toil  to  and  fro  laden  with  pears,  and  the  women  bear 
on  their  head  coppers  of  flashing  water,  that  never  spills 
or  loses  its  even  poise.  Parties  go  to  picnics  or  make  ex- 


194     CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 

cursions  up  the  valley,  or  else  up  to  the  old  mill  with  the 
one  arch  bridge,  and  the  brownly  dropping  wheel  where  I 
saw,  the  other  day,  looking  through  one  of  its  dark  win 
dows,  the  most  exquisite  living  Madonna  and  Child.  We 
live  in  the  Casa  Lena  built  on  the  site  of  an  old  feudal 
castle,  but  no  more  like  a  castle  now  than  I  to  Hercules. 
On  our  long  balcony  that  shelters  the  full  length  of  the 
house,  we  sit  in  the  earliest  morning;  all  the  long  evenings 
when  the  moon  throws  the  shadow  of  the  mountain  across 
the  valley,  as  it  rises  behind  its  fringed  outline  of  chest 
nuts,  or  hanging  full,  above  in  the  soft  upper  sky,  fills  it 
with  misty  light. 

We  leave  the  gossip  to  the  Cafe  below  where  the  little 
world  of  strangers  meets  and  sits  outside  in  the  after 
noon  under  an  awning,  and  discusses  the  nothings  of 
the  day,  while  it  takes  ices  and  granite.  Every  even 
ing  we  drive  out,  up  and  down  the  river,  and  follow  up 
through  its  wild  rocky  overshadowed  bed  the  tumultu 
ous  Lima.  For  society  we  have  the  Brownings,  whom 
we  find  delightful,  and  with  whom  we  interchange  long 
evenings  two  or  three  times  weekly,  besides  making  ex 
cursions  with  them.  We  often  speak  of  you  together,  for 
they  remember  you  both  with  pleasure  and  interest  — 
and  Browning  promised  to  give  me  a  note  to  enclose 
herein  for  you,  so  that  this  husk  may  have  a  sweet  kernel. 
They  are  both  writing,  he  a  new  volume  of  lyrics,  and  she 
a  tale  or  novel  in  verse,  which  will  probably  see  the  light 
of  the  public  square  next  spring.  What  offer  will  Putnam 
make  for  the  proof  sheets  of  these  books,  and  the  good 
will  of  the  authors,  or  has  he  any  proposition  to  make? 
See,  and  write.  .  .  . 

I  have  just  sent  to  Browning  and  obtained  a  note  from 
him  and  his  wife.  Now  if  in  answer  to  this  you  don't  send 
me  a  long,  well-packed,  closely  written  letter,  I  shall  be- 


NEW  YORK  195 

lieve  that  there  is  no  virtue  in  man.  ...  I  slept  at  the 
Crawfords'  four  weeks  under  your  old  picture  of  St. 
Peter's,  and  thought  of  you  every  morning  when  I  woke 
and  saw  it  looking  down  upon  me.  Emelyn  had  left  me 
in  Rome  to  finish  my  statue,  and  I  stayed  with  Crawford 
for  several  weeks. 

Robert  Browning  to  Mr.  Cranch 

BAGNI  DI  LUCCA,  August  25,  1853. 

My  dear  Cranch  (for  you  must  let  me  think  we  have 
grown  good  and  better  friends  all  this  time)  —  I  am 
wholly  at  your  mercy,  I  know.  You  wrote  me  the  kindest 
of  letters  long  ago,  which  gave  me  all  the  feelings  you  in 
tended  it  should,  do  believe;  but  I  delayed  answering  it 
as  my  foolish  way  is,  till  I  set  off  for  England.  Then  came 
other  engagements,  and  calls  on  time  and  thought,  —  and 
see  the  result.  I  hardly  know  if  I  should  dare  to  write  but 
that  Story  undertakes  that  you  shall  forgive  and  be  your 
very  self  of  old.  I  don't  make  the  excuse  of  having  little 
to  say  or  tell  —  you  would  bear  with  that.  We  went  to 
London  two  years  ago,  then  to  Paris,  thence  returned  to 
London,  and  now  here  we  are  since  last  autumn,  that  is, 
in  Tuscany,  and  we  shape  our  course  for  Rome  this  win 
ter,  and  England  again  in  the  spring,  if  one  dares  look  so 
far.  On  the  whole  we  are  in  a  somewhat  livelier  way  than 
when  you  saw  us,  —  go  out  now  and  then,  and  see  a  new 
friend  from  time  to  time.  My  wife's  health  is  much  im 
proved  —  or  her  strength,  at  least  —  and  our  child  (do 
you  just  remember  the  little  beginning  of  a  creature?)  is, 
and  always  has  been  quite  strong  and  well,  a  good  gra 
cious  little  fellow  who  makes  the  home  ring  with  his  laugh 
ter  from  morn  to  night.  Story  informs  me  you  are  well, 
you  and  yours;  but  you  must  go  over  all  that  ground 
again,  and  tell  us  how  painting  advances,  and  poetry,  and 


196    CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 

as  much  about  yourself  as  your  beneficence  chooses.  I 
know  I  have  never  once  made  a  fresh  American  acquain 
tance  that  I  did  not  question,  the  first  thing,  about  you, 
and  George  Curtis,  Willard,  and  Norton.  "There  are 
no  better  hearts  on  earth,"  as  your  and  our  Emerson 
says. 

Since  I  saw  you,  we  have  known  and  parted  with  poor 
Margaret  Fuller,  so  strangely  and  mournfully,  but  I 
won't  write  of  it  here  —  and  now  there  is  poor  Greenough 
gone.  Let  us  hold  to  what  we  have  the  faster. 

You  may  think  what  a  joy  it  was  to  have  the  Storys 
come  over  to  us  on  the  day  after  our  arrival  here.  They 
are  on  the  hill-top,  —  we  house  on  the  clefts  of  the  rocks. 
We  came  in  ignorance  that  they  were  in  Tuscany.  Now 
we  see  them  daily,  or  nearly  so,  and  our  weeks  go  only  too 
fleetly  by,  with  them  to  speed  them  in  this  delightful 
place,  —  for  such  it  is,  spite  of  a  clot  of  Dukes  and  Kings, 
—  kinsmen  who  are  sojourning  here  also.  The  beauty  is 
more  than  they  can  spoil.  You  were  never  here,  I  think. 
Shall  you  never  want  to  replenish  your  portfolio  with 
fresh  Italian  studies,  such  as  I  remember  to  have  filled  it 
when  I  used  to  call  on  you  in  that  old  wrecked  convent 
turned  into  the  painters'  nursery,  —  your  room  with  that 
ghastly  model  of  a  horse?  I  have  been  in  it  since,  and 
missed  you  exceedingly. 

I  shall  let  my  wife  finish  this  scrap,  —  all  the  limits  of 
Story's  letter  allow,  —  but  do  believe,  as  if  I  had  suffi 
ciently  expressed  it,  or  attempted  to  express  it,  my  true 
and  entire  remembrance  of  you  and  Mrs.  Cranch,  your 
kindness  and  sympathy.  Keep  all  you  can  of  them,  my 
dear  Cranch, 

for  yours  ever  very  faithfully, 

ROBERT  BROWNING. 


NEW  YORK  197 

Mrs.  Browning  to  Mrs.  Cranck 

My  dear  Mrs.  Cranch:  If  ever  you  forgive  us,  which  is 
possible  though  improbable  on  the  whole,  within  the 
bounds  of  human  nature,  do  tell  us  of  the  children.  The 
sight  of  Mrs.  Story's  reminds  me  that  I  must  not  any 
longer  think  of  them  as  babies,  indeed  even  my  own  boy 
might  suggest  as  much.  Do  you  remember  the  small 
creature  with  fluent  arms  and  legs?  Now  he  has  grown  to 
be  an  intelligence,  you  are  to  understand.  Blue  eyes,  light, 
long  ringlets  and  a  tendency  to  run  in  a  way  most  like 
flying! 

Try  to  believe  that  we  have  never  forgotten  any  of 
you,  nor  are  likely  to  forget  you  ever.  The  truth  is,  my 
husband  is  deep  in  the  corruption  of  neglectful  or  pro 
crastinating  letter  writing,  and  though  I  have  cried  in  his 
ears  as  loud  as  conscience  itself,  he  put  off  from  one  week 
to  another,  and  from  one  month  to  another,  writing  the 
letter  due  to  you,  till  he  covered  up  his  sin  in  the  ashes  of 
shame,  and  made  up  his  mind  never  to  dare  to  do  it.  Try 
to  forgive  him,  for  the  sake  of  the  regard  to  you  and 
yours,  under  all  offences. 

You  see  we  are  back  again  in  Italy,  after  a  year  and  a 
half  in  Paris  and  London.  Will  you  come  back?  Do  you 
ever  think  of  it,  dream  of  it,  long  for  it?  Or  are  you 
caught  up  in  the  great  whirlpool  of  American  life,  and 
stunned  deaf  to  the  music  called  Italy?  For  my  part, 
absent  or  present,  the  tune  of  it  sings  on  in  my  head.  I 
liked  Paris  much,  but  the  love  of  my  Florence  would  not 
go  out. 

The  Storys  are  looking  in  high  force  and  as  pleasant  as 
ever.  Indeed  we  grow  closer,  I  think,  and  have  to  thank 
their  affectionateness  and  agreeableness  for  much  of  our 
enjoyment  here.  Will  you  kiss  your  dear  children  for  my 


198    CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 

child  and  me?  And  will  you  both  remember  us  with  the 
affectionate  thoughts  we  bear  you? 

ELIZABETH  BARRETT  BROWNING. 

To  Mrs.  Stearns 

FISHKILL  LANDING,  September  4,  1853. 

You  will  be  surprised  to  hear  that  I  have  concluded  to 
go  to  Europe  with  wife  and  children,  about  the  first  of 
October.  We  propose  to  spend  the  winter  in  Paris,  and 
perhaps  go  to  Germany,  and  perhaps  Italy  in  the  spring. 
.  .  .  Paris,  I  had  a  mere  glimpse  of,  on  my  return  from 
Italy.  There  is  much  to  be  seen  and  many  advantages 
which  an  artist  must  derive  from  a  residence  there.  Then 
the  ease  and  comfort  of  living  there  will  be  a  great  thing 
for  Lizzie,  who  is  worn  out  with  the  cares  of  housekeeping 
and  looking  after  the  children. 

I  shall,  of  course,  regret  leaving  America  on  many  ac 
counts,  but  I  presume  there  will  be  ample  compensation 
for  all  loss.  A  kind  of  fate  draws  us  to  Europe  which  it  is 
vain  to  resist,  as  well  as  unwise.  I  only  wish  there  were  a 
little  more  time  for  preparation,  and  that  it  were  earlier 
in  the  season.  It  is  uncertain  how  long  we  shall  remain 
abroad,  that  will  depend  upon  circumstances,  but  cer 
tainly  for  a  year. 

I  have  just  returned  from  a  few  weeks'  sojourn  at 
Niagara,  and  have  brought  home  some  useful  studies 
and  sketches.  I  have  not  time  to  tell  you  how  charmed  I 
was  with  the  Falls,  and  with  all  the  surrounding  scenery. 
I  was  there  fifteen  years  ago,  for  a  day  and  a  half,  so  it 
was  all  nearly  new  to  me.  .  .  . 

I  hope  I  may  see  you  in  New  York  before  we  sail;  but  I 
don't  know  yet  how  we  shall  go,  but  by  steamer  prob 
ably.  I  want,  of  course,  to  go  as  cheap  as  possible,  con 
sistently  with  comfort.  Lizzie  has  the  promise  of  an 


NEW  YORK  199 

invaluable  nurse  to  go  with  us,  a  woman  who  offered  to 
go  herself. 

I  shall  not  have  time  to  write  to  many  of  my  friends 
before  leaving.  I  cannot  yet  realize  that  we  are  going, 
the  plan  is  such  a  sudden  thing.  But  I  shall  not  yet  say 
good-bye  to  you. 


CHAPTER  XI 

TEN   YEARS   IN   EUROPE 

THE  Autobiography  goes  on :  - 

In  October,  1853,  we  sailed  for  Europe  from  New  York 
in  the  sailing  ship  Germania.  W.  H.  Huntington l  was  a 
fellow-passenger.  He  became  intimately  acquainted  with 
us,  and  during  our  long  residence  in  Paris  we  were  often 
together.  He  was  a  true  friend,  a  man  of  sterling  charac 
ter,  of  a  most  lovable  nature,  and  great  mental  original 
ity.  He  was  for  many  years  a  correspondent  of  the  "New 
York  Tribune." 

We  settled  down  in  Paris,  where  we  remained  for 
nearly  ten  years.  We  found  life  very  pleasant  here,  and  a 
good  many  friends  and  acquaintances. 

Among  my  artist  friends  were  Story,  Babcock,  Will 
iam  Tiffany,  Richard  Greenough,  Edward  May,  William 

1  William  H.  Huntington  was  a  quaint  character  all  made  up  of 
oddities,  kindnesses,  and  good  taste  in  art,  which  a  residence  of  many 
years  in  Paris,  where  he  was  correspondent  of  the  New  York  Tribune 
for  nearly  half  a  century,  accentuated.  At  least  twice  a  week  the  year 
round  would  he  come  to  our  domicile  with  a  huge  packet  of  Tribunes. 
His  little  "at  homes"  at  8  Rue  de  Boursault  were  sought  after  for 
many  years  by  Americans  who  visited  Paris.  He  had  a  collection  of 
rare  books  and  pictures  which  were  very  well  worth  seeing.  His  man 
ner  of  entertaining  was  charming,  so  simple  and  individual.  Upon 
invitation,  Mrs.  Cranch  would  take  some  teaspoons  and  teacups  in 
her  pocket  and  pour  the  tea.  He  would  meet  friends  at  the  door,  say 
ing  all  the  servants  had  gone  into  the  country. 

He  established  a  Frenchwoman,  Madame  Busque,  in  a  little  shop 
where  American  specialties  were  sold.  Baked  beans,  griddle  cakes, 
and  pumpkin  pies  were  much  sought  after  by  her  American  clientele. 
An  American  man  or  woman  coming  home,  who  had  not  been  to  his 
teas,  had  lost  something  by  not  meeting  this  quaint  personality  in  his 
charming  rooms.  There  was  one  corner  of  Paris  unvisited. 


TEX  YEARS  IN  EUROPE  201 

Dana,  Hamilton  Wild,  Paul  Duggan,  Emile  Du  Pont; 
among  other  friends  —  all  Americans  —  were  Mrs.  Ogden 
Haggerty  and  her  two  daughters,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Turner 
Sargent,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Frank  Shaw,  Mrs.  Sarah  Ru 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  William  B.  Greene,  Frank  Boott,  James 
"\\  Lowell,  Henry  J;  .,  and  his  clever  and  at 

tractive  family,  Thomas  G.  Applet  on,  and  Peter  Porter. 
In  the  summer  of  185.5  we  had  in  Paris  a  great  Univer 
sal  Exhibition  in  an  immense  building  erected  for  the 
occasion  on  the  Champs  Elysees.    The  Department  of 
stained  works  from  most  of  the  countries  of 
Europe,  and  from  the  United  States.    My  contribution 
was  two  pictures  of  Niagara,  which  were  afterwards  pur 
chased  by  Mr.  Russell  Sturgis,  of  London.   England  was 
largely  re-  "d,  and  there  was  ample  opportunity  to 

tare  the  P^nglish  pictures  with  those  of  the  Continent, 
and  especially  with  the  French  and  Belgian;  showing  how 
far  infer'  were  to  the  latter. 

And  here  I  may  as  well  say  that  during  our  stay  in 
1  exhibited  two  or  three  times  at  the  Salon.  At  one 
exhibition  my  picture,  an  "American  Sunset,"  was  hung 
on  the  line,  though  I  knew  n  j  the  Jury  of  Admit 

tance.    It  was  purchased  by  an  American  gentleman 

ng  in  Paris. 
This  summer  was  made  memorable  by  many  thingg. 

acquaintanr--  rj    with    James    RL 

Lowell.  We  were  together  a  good  deal,  and  soon  became 
-is.  In  the  latter  part  of  July,  as  he  was  going  to 
England,  he  urged  my  accompanying  him.  The  Storys 
were  in  London,  and  for  a  time  I  was  their  guest,  and 
afterward  Lowell's  at  his  rooms.  I  saw  something  of 
London  and  the  environs. 

While  in  London  I  saw  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Browning  again. 
Thackeray  I  also  saw.   I  had  met  him  at  the  Century 


202    CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 

Club  in  New  York.  One  evening  at  Russell  Sturgis's,  he 
invited  Lowell,  Story,  and  myself  to  dine  with  him  at  the 
Garrick  Club.  After  dinner  we  adjourned  to  some  rooms 
he  called  the  "Cider-Cellar,"  which  was  not  a  cellar,  but 
a  quiet,  comfortable  parlor,  somewhere  in  the  neighbor 
hood,  where  he  ordered  cigars  and  punch.  Thackeray 
was  then  publishing  "The  Newcomes"  in  numbers.  He 
asked  us  if  we  had  seen  the  last  number.  We  said  we  had 
not.  "I  should  like,"  he  said,  "to  read  you  a  part  of  it." 
To  which,  of  course,  we  eagerly  assented.  So  he  called 
the  waiter  and  sent  him  out  with  a  shilling,  to  get  the  last 
number. 

When  it  arrived,  he  read  to  us  for  at  least  an  hour.  It 
was  the  last  part  where  Colonel  Newcome  dies.  His  tones 
were  very  pathetic,  and  we  were  much  interested.  After 
we  had  expressed  our  pleasure,  Lowell  begged  him  for  the 
number,  as  a  souvenir.  He  had  scarcely  finished  reading 
when  a  party  of  Bohemian  fellows,  artists  and  authors,  I 
believe,  came  bounding  in,  and  their  loud  talk  and  merri 
ment  grated  harshly  on  the  mood  in  which  the  reading 
had  left  us.  ...  Tennyson's  "Maud"  was  just  out,  and  I 
remember  one  very  pleasant  morning  with  Story  and 
Lowell,  passed  in  reading  it  aloud.  James  Russell  Lowell 
had  just  lost  his  wife  and  his  voice  trembled  as  he  read 
"Maud"  aloud  to  us. 

For  about  two  years  I  was  correspondent  of  the  "  New 
York  Evening  Post." 

In  the  autumn  of  1857  we  heard  the  sad  news  of  the 
burning  of  the  old  De  Windt  homestead  in  Fishkill  Land 
ing.  Hardly  anything  was  saved.  All  our  books,  manu 
scripts,  letters,  and  many  things  of  value  left  in  the  garret 
for  safe-keeping  were  consumed.  Copley's  beautiful  por 
trait  of  Mrs.  Colonel  Smith,  Mrs.  De  Windt's  mother  and 
the  only  daughter  of  John  Adams,  was  destroyed. 


TEN  YEARS  IN  EUROPE  203 

Mr.  Cranch  describes  the  old  De  Windt  home 
stead  in  the  opening  of  his  fairy  story,  "Burly- 
bones." 

On  one  of  the  most  beautiful  and  fertile  farms  that 
slopes  up  from  the  banks  of  our  noble  Hudson  River, 
stood  an  old  house  in  the  old  Dutch  style,  —  a  long,  low 
building  with  steep  gables  and  a  piazza  running  nearly  en 
tirely  around  it,  covered  with  creepers,  roses,  and  honey 
suckles.  The  house  was  surrounded  and  almost  hid  by 
tall,  venerable  locusts  and  large  horse-chestnuts  and  a 
few  weeping  willows.  Back  of  it  was  a  large  garden  filled 
with  flowers,  vegetables,  and  fruit  trees. 

A  magnificent  double  row  of  locusts,  very  old, 
formed  an  entrance  to  the  place.  The  interlacing 
boughs  were  so  close,  and  the  stateliness  of  the  trees 
so  striking,  that  this  was  called  "The  Cathedral." 
"Locust  Grove"  was  the  name  of  the  De  Windt 
estate.  This  avenue  gave  it  great  distinction;  and 
the  Hudson  River  gliding  by,  and  fine  mountains  on 
either  side  made  a  beautiful  setting  to  the  pic 
turesque  old  house. 

I  made  several  visits  of  a  few  weeks  at  a  time  to  Bar- 
bizon  and  the  Forest  of  Fontainebleau,  where  I  worked 
steadily  at  my  brush  out  of  doors.  And  delightful  days 
they  were,  though  I  had  little  company  besides  Nature. 

I  also  visited  Switzerland  in  the  summer  of  1857  and 
1858,  but  did  not  make  very  extensive  tours  in  that 
region.  I  saw  the  Lake  of  Geneva  and  Mount  Blanc  from 
St.  Martens.  And  on  my  second  visit  went  to  Interlachen, 
where  I  staid  a  week  to  get  a  clear  view  of  the  Jungfrau. 
It  was  in  September.  With  two  companions  I  walked 
across  to  Lake  Lucerne,  up  the  valley  of  the  Lauterbrun- 


204    CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 

nen,  up  the  Wengern  Alp  and  the  Glacier  of  Grindelwald, 
making  pencil  sketches  on  the  road.  It  was  a  charming 
tramp.  But  I  had  no  time  nor  much  inclination  to  ascend 
any  of  the  slippery  places  of  the  Alps.  I  took  such  ma 
terial  as  I  could  turn  into  pictures.  I  was  but  a  poor 
painter  going  off  to  work,  and  hoping  to  bring  back  some 
thing  fresh  from  Nature  upon  canvas.  I  was  not  bound 
for  St.  Gothard,  or  the  Rigi,  but  only  the  Lake  of  Geneva 
and  Vevay.  I  was  prepared  to  deny  myself.  My  pro 
spectus  was  work,  not  fun.  I  had  no  scale  like  that  of 
my  friend  Dives.  I  was  like  a  man  invited  to  hear  the 
overture  of  a  great  opera  or  to  view  the  fagade  of  St. 
Peter's § 

Well,  I  will  hear  and  see  what  I  can.  I  will  imagine 
how  the  great  men  and  women  sing,  or  how  the  wondrous 
golden  dome  looks  to  the  devotees. 

So  here  I  am  en  route  for  the  overture  to  "William 
Tell"  and  the  vestibule  of  the  great  church  whose  aisles 
are  the  grand,  dim,  precipitous  gorges,  whose  altars  are 
the  green  glaciers,  and  whose  mountain  columns  are 
capitalled  with  snow  and  domed  over  with  the  divine 
frescoes  of  clouds,  sunshine,  stars,  and  moonlight. 

The  following  are  extracts  from  the  Journal :  — 

It  is  six  o'clock  in  the  morning.  I  am  leaving  the  streets 
of  Paris  behind,  Monsieur  Chiffonier,  and  you  are  so  busy 
there  looking  over  that  dust-pile  of  cabbage  leaves  and 
scraps  of  paper  and  ends  of  cigars,  that  you  don't  seem 
aware  that  I  am  passing  by  in  a  sumptuous  voiture  de 
place  with  a  big  trunk  a-top  and  my  passport  in  my 
pocket  and  money  in  my  purse:  and  pretty  soon  your 
dusty  Paris,  with  all  its  crowds,  from  ragpicker  to  Em 
peror,  who  bake  and  sizzle  along  the  bitumen  pavements, 
will  be  far  behind,  and  the  snow-capped  Alps  in  sight.  t> 


TEN  YEARS  IN  EUROPE  205 

And  to  my  surprise  they  were  in  sight  much  sooner 
than  I  expected.  That  is,  as  I  was  flying  along  on  the 
railroad  (Chemin-de-fer  de  Lyon)  nearing  Macon,  if  I 
had  not  known  in  which  direction  to  look  for  my  snow 
capped  grandees,  and  if  the  atmosphere  had  not  been 
particularly  clear,  I  might  have  mistaken  what  I  saw,  far 
off  on  the  dim  horizon,  for  a  bank  of  luminous  cloud.  And 
indeed  for  some  time  I  had  my  doubts.  I  prayed  in 
wardly  that  they  might  not  crumble  into  air.  The  sun 
was  nearly  setting.  I  watched  this  rosy,  distant  vision 
with  straining  eyes.  Only  stay,  dear  Alps,  do  not  fade 
away,  don't  let  my  first  glimpse  of  your  distant  glories 
prove  an  unsubstantial  pageant!  I  turned  to  a  young 
Frenchwoman  in  the  car,  and  said,  "Voila  Mont  Blanc!" 
She  took  it  rather  stupidly.  If  I  had  said,  "There  is  your 
stopping-place,"  some  lonely  little  station  where  she 
was  to  get  out,  she  would  have  been  ten  times  more 
excited. 

To  me  the  distant,  dreamy  vision  was  a  delicious 
glimpse  of  the  Delectable  Mountains.  I  could  see  now, 
they  did  not  melt  away.  I  could  trace  the  solid  mountain 
forms.  And  as  they  disappeared  in  the  lowering  gray,  I 
was  content  to  bid  them  good-night,  for  I  should  soon  see 
them  more  nearly. 

The  railroad  ride  was  long  and  hot,  and  I  was  glad  to 
put  up  for  the  night  at  a  cool,  quiet  inn  at  Macon.  My 
windows  opened  to  the  east  on  the  Saone,  and  I  left  them 
open.  It  was  a  warm  night.  Early  in  the  morning,  —  it 
could  n't  have  been  more  than  four  o'clock,  —  I  was 
gratified  and  somewhat  surprised  to  see  on  the  extreme 
horizon  for  the  second  time  His  Majesty  the  Monarch  of 
Mountains.  But  now  he  was  dark  against  the  red  morn 
ing  sky. 

Before  the  sun  rose  he  had  withdrawn.   I  have  had  a 


206    CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 

third  view  of  his  head  and  shoulders,  and  a  very  near 
view,  at  Geneva.  Since  that  I  have  lost  sight  of  him. 
He  was  one  of  the  Cremonas  in  my  overture,  in  fact  he 
led  the  orchestra,  as  he  should  have  done. 

On  the  16th  a  railroad  took  me  as  far  as  a  place  called 
Seyssel  on  the  frontier  of  Savoy.  At  a  place  called  Am- 
berieu  the  mountains  commence,  and  from  here  all  the 
way  to  Seyssel  I  and  my  two  car-companions,  a  bearded, 
silent  Frenchman  and  a  social  Sister  of  Charity,  were 
rushing  from  one  side  of  the  car  to  the  other,  breaking 
our  necks  to  look  up  at  the  craggy  and  savage  mountains 
overhead.  It  was  a  wild,  lonely,  uninhabited-looking 
region  through  which  we  passed.  The  villages  were  few, 
and  all  looked  as  if  the  inhabitants  had  deserted  for  fear 
of  the  toppling  crags  overhead. 

I  went  to  Geneva,  Morge,  Lausanne,  Vevay,  and  was 
several  days  at  St.  Martens,  near  Mont  Blanc.  Here  I 
had  uninterrupted  views  of  the  magnificent  snow-peaks, 
of  which  I  made  accurate  drawings  and  some  attempt  at 
the  wondrous  colors  at  sunset.  .  .  . 

September  11.  Sent  off  baggage  to  the  Post  for  Lu 
cerne,  and  with  two  companions,  both  Americans,  set  off 
on  our  foot- journey  over  the  mountains  —  up  Lauter- 
brunnen  Valley.  Made  a  sketch  of  the  approach  to  the 
valley,  a  very  fine  scene.  Enormous  cliffs  overhead  — 
waterfalls  and  mountain-streams  in  abundance.  Saw  the 
Staubbach,  a  wonderful  fall,  a  veil  or  scarf  of  water 
fringed  with  spray,  falling  some  eight  hundred  feet,  and 
spilling  itself  in  the  air.  Heard  for  the  second  time  the 
Alpine  horn  and  the  echoes.  Started  for  the  Wengern  Alp. 
Luckily  a  stout  boy  named  Ulrich  offered  to  carry  our 
packs  all  the  way  up  the  mountain  to  the  Jungfrau  Hotel 
for  two  francs.  It  was  fortunate  we  did  not  attempt  to 
carry  them  ourselves,  for  the  climbing  was  difficult.  We 


TEN  YEARS  IN  EUROPE  207 

had  three  hours  of  it,  and  a  hot  afternoon  sun.  Slept  at 
the  Jungfrau  Hotel,  a  quiet,  clean  Bauernhaus.  A  pretty 
daughter  of  the  host  waited  on  the  table.  Saw  a  fine 
avalanche,  and  heard  avalanches  thundering  in  the  night. 
Awfully  grand  was  the  gigantic  Jungfrau  opposite,  with 
its  neighbors  the  Monch  and  Eiger,  filling  one  half  the 
horizon  and  looming  up  in  solitary  grandeur  with  their 
eternal  snows :  the  sky  perfectly  cloudless :  and  those  in 
accessible  heights  seemed  so  near,  as  if  we  could  almost 
touch  them.  Far  below  the  Lauterbrunnen  Valley  lay 
dusky  and  mysterious.  Not  a  sound  to  be  heard,  save 
now  and  then  the  thunders  of  the  avalanches  from  the 
mountains. 

f  September  13.  Walked  over  the  Scheideck  and  down  to 
Meyringen.  The  Alpine  horn  near  the  Wetterhorn  was 
wonderful.  The  echoes  sent  back  from  the  steep  preci 
pices  were  unearthly.  Sometimes  there  came  three  dis 
tinct  echoes,  that  kept  up  a  blended  harmony,  like  an 
organ  or  band  of  instruments.  The  boy  who  blew  the 
horn  had  two  small  cannon  to  discharge.  He  fired  off  one 
for  eight  sous.  It  was  like  a  tremendous  clap  of  thunder. 
All  the  Alps  seemed  to  reverberate  in  one  long  peal.  We 
slept  at  Meyringen,  a  lovely  valley,  abounding  in  water 
falls. 

September  14-  A  long  day's  walk  to  Alpnacht  on  Lake 
Lucerne.  After  climbing  the  Brunig,  and  descending  a 
very  steep  path,  our  way  lay  over  a  very  level  country 
with  a  good  carriage-road  by  the  lakes  of  Lungern  and 
Sarnen.  At  Gyswil  we  lunched  at  a  pleasant  auberge, 
where  I  saw  in  the  hotel  book  the  name  of  Calame.  .  .  . 
Sketched  on  Lake  Sarnen.  Got  to  Alpnacht  in  time  for 
the  boat  to  Lucerne.  The  sunset  and  clouds  were  glori 
ous.  ...  I  think  I  prefer  Lucerne  to  all  the  Swiss  towns 
I  have  seen. 


208    CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 

Again,  from  the  Autobiography:  — 

The  winter  of  1858-59  I  spent  in  Rome,  alone.  I  took  a 
room  with  a  studio  in  the  Via  Sistina  and  was  pretty  busy 
through  the  winter.  I  saw  a  good  deal  of  the  Storys,  and 
found  a  good  many  pleasant  American  acquaintances. 
Hawthorne  and  his  family  were  there  and  the  Motleys, 
and  the  Brownings.  I  enjoyed  the  winter,  except  that  I 
was  separated  from  my  family.  I  returned  to  Paris  in  the 
spring. 

In  1860  I  visited  Venice  and  made  the  most  of  my  time 
by  sketching  busily,  gaining  material  for  a  good  many 
pictures  afterwards  painted.  It  is  needless  to  say  how 
fascinated  I  was  with  the  place. 

Before  leaving  Paris  I  called  with  Lizzie  at  the  studio  of 
M.  Felix  Ziem,  an  artist  celebrated  for  his  seaports  and 
especially  his  Venetian  views,  which  we  greatly  admired. 
He  kindly  gave  me  the  address  of  the  person  in  whose 
house  he  had  rooms  in  Venice.  In  this  house  I  secured 
lodgings.  It  was  on  the  Riva  dei  Schiavoni,  fronting  the 
harbor,  where  I  could  sketch  directly  from  my  win 
dow.  .  .  . 

An  extract  from  a  sad  and  beautiful  letter  from 
W.  W.  Story  telling  of  the  loss  of  his  little  son,  and 
the  long,  dangerous  illness  of  his  daughter. 

VELLETRI,  March,  1854. 

Your  two  very  kind  letters  came  to  me  two  months 
ago,  while  at  the  sick-bed  of  little  Edith.  And  at  the  sick 
bed  of  little  Edith  I  write  my  answer.  What  a  winter  we 
have  had  —  of  grief  and  anxiety !  .  .  .  I  pray  God  that 
you  and  Lizzie  may  never  know  the  suffering  we  have 
had.  We  returned  to  Rome  in  November,  and  all  were 
particularly  well  and  happy.  Never  had  life  seemed  to 


TEN  YEARS  IN  EUROPE  209 

open  so  fair  a  prospect  to  us,  and  we  looked  forward  to 
the  future  with  glad  hearts,  but  we  are  now  crushed  and 
maimed  forever.  .  .  .  When  I  think  of  that  mound  under 
the  pyramid  of  Caius  Cestius,  my  heart  is  fain  to  break. 
Everything  revives  recollections,  which  are  pangs,  and  I 
cannot  enjoy  the  beauty  of  it  any  longer.  Were  it  not  for 
the  Faith,  the  blind  faith  of  something  hereafter  better,  I 
should  go  mad.  But  if  this  world  were  all,  it  would  be 
devil's  work,  and  the  utter  incompleteness  of  everything 
here  points  its  sure  finger  to  a  better  hereafter.  What 
service  this  terrible  suffering  is  to  render  me,  I  cannot  see, 
but  I  have  faith  that  all  is  for  the  best,  somehow,  though 
I  know  not  how. 

Dear  little  Joe  was  well,  gay,  full  of  spirits,  scurrying 
around  me  in  play  on  Monday,  and  on  Wednesday  the 
peace  of  death  was  on  his  little  face.  How  serene  it 
looked.  As  I  gazed  on  it,  I  envied  that  exquisite  repose. 
I  did  not  dare  to  wish  him  back.  No  one  can  know  what 
he  was  to  us.  A  purer,  more  spotless  soul,  I  do  not  believe 
was  ever  on  this  earth.  I  always  owned  him  with  trem 
bling.  I  always  felt  that  he  did  not  belong  to  us,  for  there 
was  something  strange  about  him  which  never  belonged 
to  Earth's  children.  Dear  little  boy !  I  know  no  thought 
ever  bubbled  up  into  his  mind  that  was  not  divine,  and 
this  earth  never  brushed  the  spirit  dust  from  off  his  soul. 
He  used  to  go  with  Emelyn  to  the  English  cemetery  to 
strew  flowers  over  the  green  grave  of  little  Walter 
Lowell,1  and  one  day,  returning,  he  looked  up  with  those 
large,  sweet  eyes  and  said:  "Mamma  when  shall  you 
bring  me  here  to  lie  down  with  little  Walter  and  be  an 
angel,  for  you  know  you  must  some  day?"  Well!  Well! 
He  at  least  is  spared  from  what  we  suffer,  and  I  often 
think  of  the  words  of  Jeremy  Taylor  (I  think  the  words 
1  The  youngest  child  of  James  Russell  Lowell. 


210    CHRISTOPHER  PE ARSE  BRANCH 

are  Taylor's),  —  "He  who  has  lost  a  child  has  cast  an 
anchor  in  Heaven."  . 


To  his  brother  Edward 

PARIS,  April  30,  1854. 

MY  DEAR  BROTHER,  — 

...  It  hardly  seems  possible  that  nearly  six  months 
have  passed  since  we  arrived  at  Paris.  Well,  I  have  had 
my  ups  and  downs,  my  "glees  and  my  glooms."  The 
winter  has  not  been  altogether  couleur  de  rose,  but  on  the 
whole  a  happy  and  pleasant  one.  Life  is  a  curious  mixture 
of  gladness  and  sadness;  of  sufferings  and  anxieties,  with 
a  family  of  young  children,  and  very  little  to  spend  — 
sometimes  forced  to  borrow  money  —  and  no  orders,  and 
little  hopes  of  any.  One  must  be  of  good  stuff  to  be 
always  merry. 

I  will  now  answer  some  of  the  questions  which  you 
would  put  to  me,  if  you  were  with  me.  How  do  you  like 
Paris?  I  like  it  much;  that  is,  we  find  here  everything  we 
need  for  comfort  and  convenience  in  living,  and  every 
thing,  with  a  few  exceptions,  cheaper  than  in  New  York; 
often  very  much  cheaper.  Those  who  talk  of  the  expen- 
siveness  of  Paris,  have  spoken  from  their  experience  at 
hotels  and  furnished  apartments,  as  well  as  a  too  brief 
acquaintance  of  the  shops,  and  a  too  limited  knowledge  of 
the  French  language.  Foreigners  are  always  imposed 
upon,  but  when  one  gets  into  the  way  of  things,  and  takes 
some  pains  to  find  out  the  just  prices,  one  is  treated 
better.  Had  we  known  as  much  as  we  do  now,  during  the 
first  month  we  were  here,  we  might  have  saved  a  good 
deal  of  money.  After  six  months'  experience  we  are  find 
ing  out  the  savoir-faire. 

For  an  artist,  Paris  is  the  very  place,  at  least  for  study; 
that  I  am  convinced  of.  In  the  first  place,  all  artist's 


TEN  YEARS  IN  EUROPE  211 

materials  are  much  cheaper  and  better  than  with  us.  I 
include  in  this  everything  that  an  artist  needs,  from  a 
studio  down  to  engravings,  colors,  and  drawing  pencils. 
Then  he  has  the  Louvre,  which  he  can  enter  at  any  time, 
and  if  he  chooses  study  and  copy  in.  Then  he  sees  all 
around  him,  as  good  specimens  of  contemporaneous  art 
as  can  anywhere  be  found,  to  say  nothing  of  architecture, 
gardens,  fountains,  statues,  engravings,  lithographs,  pho 
tographs,  casts  from  life  and  the  antique,  etc.,  etc. 

The  general  effect  of  Paris,  taken  through  an  artist's 
eye,  and  into  an  artist's  brain,  is  to  educate  that  eye  and 
brain,  as  our  American  life  cannot.  I  don't  mean  that  an 
artist,  or  anyone  else  who  is  American,  should  pass  his 
days  here.  But  a  year  or  two  of  study  here,  must  be 
vastly  beneficial  to  a  man  whose  sphere  is  to  be  art,  and 
whose  aim  is  improvement. 

W.  W.  Story  to  Mr.  Cranch 

'  LONDON,  July  19,  1855. 

.  .  .  J.  R.  L.  writes  that  you  and  he  went  to  see  Bee 
thoven.  Are  the  bronzes  finished?  How  I  wish  he  and 
you  and  I  could  have  been  there  together;  but  James  has 
just  written  to  me  saying  that  he  will  come  over  to  old, 
smoky  London,  and  by  George,  will  go  to  the  Tabard  Inn 
and  the  Mermaid  Tavern.  Why  don't  you  come  over  too? 
Here  is  Browning  just  about  to  publish,  and  Lytton  en 
joying  his  laurels.  The  laurel  is  a  poison  plant.  And  we 
dined  together  a  couple  of  days  ago  at  John  Forster's  with 
Boxall  and  Peter  Cunningham,  and  had  a  jovial  time  up 
to  twelve  of  the  clock. 

The  streets  look  dark  and  smoky,  after  Paris,  and  it 
seems  as  if  the  houses  had  been  moved  down  of  their  tops, 
they  are  so  low  and  uncorniced.  The  parks  are  grand 
lungs.  The  people  are  a  funny,  canty  set  of  shaven,  pious 


CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 

people,  but  honest  and  conscientious.  The  women  are 
far  prettier  than  I  had  remembered  them,  perhaps  from 
contrast  with  the  Parisians.  All  of  them  are  fresh  in 
color  and  blooming.  A  good  many  fine  beasts  and  a  band 
at  the  Theological  Gardens,  as  Edie  used  to  call  them.  .  .  . 
Lord  Palmerston  savage  and  in  the  impotence  of  age, 
Dizzy  shooting  Parthian  arrows  that  sting,  and  Sir  Ed 
ward  Lytton  making  elaborate  speeches  after  his  ground 
has  been  knocked  from  under  him,  are  really  worth  see 
ing.  It  is  very  interesting  and  very  admirably  arranged. 
I  saw  your  "Nahant"  at  Sturgis's  the  other  day.  It 
looked  very  well  and  they  are  delighted  with  it.  The 
rocks,  as  I  said,  looked  really  rocky.  .  .  .  We  eat  and 
drink  with  numbers  of  people,  despite  the  lateness  of  the 
season. 

From  a  letter  describing  the  writer's  first  sight  of 
London,  whither  his  friend,  James  Russell  Lowell, 
had  taken  him:  — 

To  Mrs.  Cranch 

LONDON,  July  26,  1855. 

.  .  .  We  arrived  yesterday  afternoon  about  half-past 
four.  We  came  by  the  Thames  and  not  by  Folkestone,  as 
I  expected. . . .  London,  coming  up  the  Terns,  looks  almost 
exactly  as  I  expected,  and  so  has  everything  else  that  I 
have  seen,  except  that  the  houses  are  blacker  and  the  air 
smokier  than  I  imagined. 

We  came  directly  to  Bulstrode  Street,  where  we  found 
a  cordial  welcome  from  the  Story s.  It  is  a  very  quiet  part 
of  the  city,  looking  very  like  Boston,  except  the  aforesaid 
blackness  of  the  houses.  I  have  a  little  room  of  Story's  on 
the  fourth  floor,  which  they  insisted  on  my  occupying, 
and  on  my  being  their  guest.  I  remonstrated,  but  in  vain. 


TEN  YEARS  IN  EUROPE  213 

About  eight  o'clock  we  all  went  to  dine  at  Russell  Stur- 
gis's.  Everything  was  in  grand  style.  We  were  received 
in  the  entry  (you  must  know  the  houses  are  all  arranged 
precisely  like  American  houses),  by  five  or  six  magnificent 
serving-men  in  livery.  Then  we  were  ushered  up  a  great 
carpeted  stairway  into  the  large  drawing-room,  where  a 
dozen  other  guests  were  assembled.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Sturgis 
were  very  agreeable  and  looked  very  handsome.  No  less 
than  sixteen  persons  sat  down  to  dinner,  and  were  served, 
course  after  course,  by  the  resplendent  servants,  headed 
by  the  most  gentlemanly  of  black-coated  and  white- 
chokered  butlers.  Beside  Mrs.  Sturgis  there  were  three 
other  ladies.  All  seemed  to  be  English  except  our 
party.  .  .  . 

This  morning  after  breakfast,  Greenough,  the  sculptor, 
came  in,  much  to  the  surprise  of  the  Storys  and  of  Lowell. 
He  is  going  soon  to  Paris  where  he  intends  residing,  for  a 
time  at  least. .  .  .  The  Storys  are  laying  out  a  programme 
of  places  to  be  visited  —  even  Stonehenge  and  Stratford 
are  talked  of.  ... 

James  Russell  Lowell  to  Mr.  Cranch 

No.  1  BULSTRODE  ST., 
Tuesday.  (August,  1855.) 

Here  is  a  letter  which  I  doubt  would  not  have  pro 
longed  your  furlough  and  my  pleasure.  You  were  quite 
right  to  go  —  otherwise  I  should  have  begged  you  to  stay 
longer.  It  is  good  to  have  a  conscience,  but  not  to  let  it 
tie  so  many  knots  in  one's  face.  I  am  very  glad  I  have 
had  a  chance  of  knowing  you  a  little,  and  am  a  little 
vexed  that  you  should  have  thought  it  necessary  to  give 
me  the  little  sketch,  though,  Trusty  Christopher,  I  value 
it  highly.  Browning  was  sorry  not  to  see  you  last  evening, 
and  expressed  the  value  he  set  upon  you.  Said  I,  "He  is 


214     CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 

an  oyster  —  you  have  to  open  him  with  a  knife  —  but 
then  there  is  not  only  meat  in  him  but  a  pearl  also."  Said 
Browning,  "Yes,  quite  true  —  and  he  has  a  fine  beard 
too,"  which  I  thought  good. 

I  am  astounded  to  find  myself  writing  to  you  —  but 
God  bless  you!  Good-bye. 

Affectionately  yours, 
JACOPO  BARBAROSSA. 

To  Mrs.  Stearns 

PARIS,  August  10,  1855. 

.  .  .  Since  I  left  America,  life  has  gone  on  with  me 
pretty  evenly,  with  its  usual  ups  and  downs.  As  to  my 
success,  I  get  on  about  as  usual,  neither  better  nor  worse. 
I  scratch  along,  sometimes  very  miserable  and  sometimes 
very  merry.  Somehow  I  find  fewer  sympathizing  souls 
than  I  used  to.  But  I  find  them  here  and  there.  William 
Story  has  been  a  good,  constant  and  warm-hearted  friend, 
and  congenial  to  all  my  tastes.  And  lately  I  have  become 
quite  intimate  with  James  Russell  Lowell,  to  whom  I 
have  formed  a  strong  attachment.  I  went  over  to  Eng 
land  the  other  day  with  him  and  had  two  weeks  there 
which  I  enjoyed  very  much.  On  my  return  I  found  a  son l 
born  into  my  family;  a  fine  boy,  whose  appearance  on 
this  planet  I  did  not  look  for  within  a  week  or  two  to 
come.  This  young  family  makes  me  feel  sometimes  very 
old.  If  I  allowed  myself  to  think  of  my  responsibilities  as 
a  father,  I  should  be  quite  overburdened  with  anxious 
thought.  The  truth  is,  I  try  not  to  think  of  the  future, 
but  let  the  present  flow  into  what  moulds  I  can.  That  is, 
when  it  can  be  moulded.  .  .  . 

In  London  I  saw  Browning  several  times,  and  Thack 
eray,  with  whom  I  dined,  with  Story  and  Lowell,  at  the 
1  Quincy  Adams  Cranch. 


TEN  YEARS  IN  EUROPE  215 

Garrick  Club.  .  .  .  Browning  is  about  publishing  a  new 
volume  —  or  rather  two  volumes  —  of  poems.  I  look 
for  them  very  eagerly.  He  is,  in  my  opinion,  the  great 
poet  of  the  day.  I  don't  know  any  one  teeming  with  such 
rich  life  and  thought  as  Browning. 

Tennyson  has  a  new  volume  out,  called  "Maud."  It 
contains  beautiful  things. 

As  for  my  humble  self,  —  not  that  I  put  myself  beside 
these  high  singers,  —  I  write  scarcely  anything.  But  I 
live  in  hopes  of  doing  something  worth  publishing  some 
day.  If  I  publish,  I  shall  make  a  severe  selection  of  my 
poems  probably,  for  the  older  I  grow,  the  more  rigorous  a 
critic  I  become. 

Last  winter  I  wrote  a  child's  story  called  "The  Last  of 
the  Huggermuggers,"  about  a  good  giant,  which,  if  it  is 
ever  published,  will,  I  think,  amuse  you  and  your  chil 
dren.  I  illustrated  it,  and  drew  the  designs  on  wood  for 
the  engraver.  It  is  now  in  the  hands  of  G.  W.  Curtis,  who 
is  trying  to  get  a  publisher  for  it.  I  should  like  you  to  see 
it.  It  is  amusing,  with  some  pathos  at  the  end.  Poor 
Georgie  always  cried  at  the  last  part  of  it.  ... 

Mr.  Cranch  had  the  sorrow  of  losing  his  father  at 
this  time.  He  was  deeply  grieved  to  learn  of  the 
death  of  Judge  Cranch,  at  Washington,  September 
1,  1855. 

James  Russell  Lowell  to  Mr.  Cranch 

DRESDEN,  October  4,  1855. 

It  was  a  very  great  pleasure  to  receive  a  letter  from  you 
and  especially  so  cordial  a  one.  I  should  have  written 
sooner,  but  I  have  hitherto  been  taken  up  altogether  with 
doing  nothing,  that  is,  either  my  niece  or  nephew  wanted 
all  the  time  I  did  not  give  to  my  sister.  They  are  all  gone 


CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 

to  Italy  now,  and  I  am  left  here  by  myself  to  vanquish 
those  hundred-headed  hydras  —  German  sentences.  It 
is  a  death  grapple,  and  I  don't  know  yet  which  will  win. 
It  is  very  droll  to  be  a  schoolboy  again,  and  of  the  lowest 
form  too.  I  think  of  getting  a  jacket  and  satchel  —  in 
moments  of  temporary  enthusiasm  I  dream  of  tops  and 
balls  and  marbles.  My  own  private  opinion  is  that  the 
German  was  the  Ursprache  or  original  tongue,  and  that 
the  confusion  of  Babel  (for  which  Gott  sei  Dank  I  since  to 
that  I  owe  my  title  of  Professor)  arose  from  the  fact  that 
several  right-minded  and  independent  Patriarchs,  having 
reached  middle  life  —  say  one  hundred  and  fifty  years, 
and  without  being  able  to  express  themselves  with  any 
tolerable  facility,  and  having  children  enough,  with  their 
mammas,  to  make  a  strong  diversion,  resolved  not  to  sub 
mit  any  longer,  and  so  each  set  up  a  language  of  his  own, 
as  a  man  sets  up  a  coach  when  he  can  afford  it  instead  of 
going  any  longer  in  the  omnibus,  and  drove  off,  each  his 
own  way,  in  his  private  vehicle  of  thought.  That  sentence 
is  almost  as  long  and  almost  as  intricate  as  that  of  a  Ger 
man  philosopher,  but  perhaps  you  can  fish  out  the  idea.  I 
am  reading  the  "^Esthetische  Forschungen"  of  Adolf 
Zeising,  —  a  good  book,  by  the  way,  —  and  I  go  to  work 
on  a  paragraph  as  folks  do  in  those  French  eating-houses 
where  one  pays  a  sou  for  a  dive  in  the  caldron.  The  dic 
tionary  is  my  forchettone  and  I  plunge  and  replunge  my 
weapon  at  a  venture,  sometimes  spearing  nothing,  and 
sometimes  getting  a  waterlogged  potato,  and  sometimes, 
also,  a  bit  of  truly  nourishing  meat. 

I  am  very  well  off  here,  indeed,  in  a  very  kind  family 
and  with  a  uomo  distinto,  as  they  say  in  Italy,  that  is,  a 
very  distinct  man  —  learned,  simple,  and  queer.  It  is 
delightful  to  see  him  and  his  wife  together  after  a  mar 
riage  of  thirty-six  years,  —  she  so  proud  of  him  and  call- 


JUDGE    WILLIAM   CRAXCH 


TEN  YEARS  IN  EUROPE  217 

ing  him  her  liebste  August,  as  if  they  were  betrothed 
lovers  still,  and  he  whimsically  and  abstractedly  affec 
tionate  like  a  great,  tender-hearted  bear  who  has  ac 
quired  a  mechanical  habit  of  endearing  manners.  I  have 
a  pleasant  room  on  the  ground  floor  qui  donne  sur  un 
petit  jardin  by  a  large  glass  door.  I  think  I  shall  stay  here 
till  March.  I  like  Dresden  well  enough.  There  are  very 
pleasant  walks,  the  theatre  is  excellent,  and  the  gallery  a 
fine  one.  The  famous  Correggios  as  usual  disappointed 
me,  except  the  Magdalen  which  is  a  charming  little  pic 
ture.  The  others  are  confusion  and  bosh.  The  "Tribute 
Money"  of  Titian  is  wonderful  —  and  —  what  I  was  not 
prepared  for,  the  head  of  Christ  is  the  noblest  by  far  I 
have  ever  seen,  —  tender  with  a  kind  of  foreboding  sor 
row,  and  strong  at  the  same  time  with  subdued  self- 
reliance.  In  the  great  Madonna,  the  expression  of  the 
mother  and  the  child  is  truly  divine  —  otherwise,  the 
picture  is  meagre  in  color,  and  the  secondary  figures  are 
comparatively  poor,  merely  subserving  the  pyramidal 
design  of  the  picture  and  the  distribution  of  color  and  not 
to  be  looked  at  more  than  as  a  frame  of  a  concordant 
shape  would  be.  There  is  also  the  finest  Claude  I  have 
ever  seen,  and  a  truly  beautiful  Madonna  of  Holbein. 
The  Gallery  is  strong  also  in  the  Dutch  school  —  a  set  of 
fellows  who  had  admirable  powers  of  expression  with 
nothing  to  express. 

One  of  my  pleasantest  experiences  has  been  a  visit  to 
old  Retzsch  who  showed  us  his  portfolio  with  the  delight 
of  a  child  and  quite  as  if  it  were  the  work  of  somebody 
else.  There  were  some  charming  things  in  it,  and  it  was 
very  sweet  to  me  that  I  could  press  the  hand  that  had 
given  me  so  much  delight  when  I  was  younger  and  hap 
pier.  R.  has  quite  lost  his  mind,  but  there  is  nothing  pain 
ful  in  his  condition  which  is  rather  childlike  than  childish. 


218     CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 

The  little  landscape  you  gave  me  stands  opposite  as  I 
write  on  the  top  of  my  writing  table  and  looks  as  brilliant 
as  ever.  I  like  to  see  it  and  to  be  reminded  of  you  and  of 
our  London  days  together.  I  shall  see  you  again  in  the 
spring,  I  hope,  on  my  return  from  Spain.  I  do  nothing 
but  study  German  and  Spanish,  and  have  to  use  French 
as  my  dragoman,  so  that  English  will  before  long  be  a 
strange  tongue  to  me.  .  .  . 

W.  W.  Story  to  Mr.  Cranch 

BOSTON,  December  24,  1855. 

A  little  work  was  published  here  on  Saturday  by  Phil 
lips  and  Sampson  entitled  "The  Last  of  the  Hugger- 
muggers,"  of  which  there  were  nine  hundred  copies  sold 
at  five  o'clock  of  the  afternoon  of  the  same  day.  The 
newspapers  speak  highly  of  this  latest  literary  production 
and  it  seems  to  be  quite  a  hit.  P.  &  S.  say  that  it  is  to  sell 
very  well  and  that,  were  the  holidays  a  little  further  off, 
they  would  easily  have  sold  ten  thousand.  Critics  in  the 
public  prints  speak  of  the  elegant  manner  in  which  the 
book  is  got  up,  and  I  found  on  going  to  the  shop  to  pro 
cure  a  copy  that  they  did  not  deceive  the  world.  A  more 
beautifully  "got  up"  book  has  not  issued  from  the  press. 
The  illustrations  are  very  well  cut,  and  the  letter  press  is 
beautiful.  A  group  of  little  children  "might  have  been 
seen"  (G.  P.  R.  James)  last  night  gathered  around  it  and 
wrapped  up  in  the  profoundest  interest  —  and  by  this 
time  I  have  no  doubt  that,  all  over  the  city,  groups  may  be 
seen  in  similar  attitudes  —  and  that  on  Tuesday  night  it 
will  hang  from  Christmas  Trees  and  lie  everywhere  about 
on  tables  done  up  in  blank  paper  tied  with  a  blue  or  red 
cord,  and  bearing  the  superscription  of  some  little  child 
with  the  words  "a  merry  Christmas"  underscored. 
"...  We  have  had  charming  weather  thus  far,  and  al- 


TEN  YEARS  IN  EUROPE  219 

though  we  are  all  parched  up  and  absolutely  kiln-dried 
with  the  furnaces  which  abound,  we  get  along  well  enough 
—  when  we  can  get  an  ounce  of  air  to  breathe.  No  snow 
to  speak  of  as  yet.  Thackeray  has  been  delivering  his 
lectures,  which  are  easy,  light,  genial  pictures  of  manners 
and  men  in  the  reign  of  the  Georges.  But  the  public  don't 
find  them  sad  and  hard  and  heavy  enough.  If  a  light  easy 
curricle  comes  to  the  door  of  the  American  mind  to  take 
it  on  an  airing  and  give  it  a  glimpse  at  the  landscape  and 
a  breath  of  fresh  air,  the  American  mind  snuffs  up  its  nose 
and  considers  itself  insulted.  It  says,  Why  not  cart  me  in 
a  load  of  the  stones  which  are  on  your  landscape  or  of  coals 
which  are  underground,  or  of  the  forest  after  it  is  cut 
down  and  well  sawed,  and  dump  it  at  my  door;  that 
would  be  worth  something.  So  although  there  are  who 
like  these  lectures  of  Thackeray,  because  they  are  so 
genial  and  pleasant  and  satiric,  —  there  is  sour  enough  to 
make  good  punch,  —  Ticknorville  aghast  somewhat  at 
the  lightness  says,  "Does  Thackeray  think  it  worth 
while  to  come  over  the  ocean  to  talk  such  light  talk  to  us? 
What  different  lectures  were  those  of  Sir  Charles  Lyell  on 
Geology!  He  gave  us  information  of  value."  Yes,  dearest 
Cranchibus,  it  is  information  of  value  we  seek;  we  scorn 
to  be  pleased.  However,  go  not  away  with  the  idea  that 
Thackeray  has  not  succeeded.  He  has  filled  his  pockets, 
for  people  had  to  go  in  order  to  criticise.  .  .  . 

You  would  laugh  or  weep,  as  the  case  might  be,  to  be 
hold  me  here,  in  the  little  back  room  of  Little  &  Brown, 
hard  at  work  all  day,  and  up  to  my  ears  in  the  law.  Think 
of  this  —  within  the  last  nine  months  I  have  written  some 
four  hundred  printed  pages  of  law  to  be  added  to  the 
fourth  edition  of  my  book  on  "Contracts."  Did  you  say 
"Pegasus  im  poche"  —  for  I  thought  I  heard  you  whis 
per,  "Law  flourishes,  but  art  is  dead."  Are  the  vines 


220    CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 

dying  all  over  the  world?  If  Pegasus  kicks  up  in  harness, 
and  free  for  a  moment  in  letters,  cuts  Didos,  —  as  pious 
^Eneas,  or  any  ass  may,  —  forgive  him.  He  has  to  go 
back  to  the  plough,  and  have  a  hard  pull  of  it  too.  The 
subject  upon  which  I  enter  to-day  is  "Legal  tender" 
which  I  shall  find  sufficiently  tough,  doubtless. 

No  poetry  for  me  yet,  but  I  have  vague  ideas  of  pub 
lishing  a  book  of  verses  yet;  ma  che  sa?  Life  is  so  gritty 
and  the  wheels  jar  and  squeak  so  here,  that  there  is  little 
music  in  them.  Speaking  of  music,  there  is  good  music 
here  in  the  way  of  quartette  and  orchestra,  and  with  al 
lowances  all  goes  well;  only  there  is  the  greatest  bigotry 
in  respect  of  the  German  school,  and  there  are  two  cliques 
—  one  Italian  and  one  German,  who  fight  all  day  long, 
and  one  American  headed  by  Fry  and  Bristow  who  pitch 
generally  into  every  one  and  strike  out  right  and  left, 
every  fight  being  a  free  fight.  Oh,  little  Peddlington,  how 
charming  are  thy  ways! 

W.  W.  Story  to  Mr.  Cranch 

BOSTON,  April  18,  1856. 

I  have  only  a  minute  and  a  half  to  write  to  you,  but  I 
have  a  matter  of  moment  to  communicate  and  will  not 
let  the  steamer  go  without  it.  I  have  promised  on  your 
behalf  to  Phillips,  Sampson  &  Co.  that  you  will  write 
them  another  story  with  illustrations  of  about  the  length 
of  "  Huggermugger,"  and  send  it  to  them  in  July.  So 
bestir  your  stumps. 

Now  I  am  going  to  advise  you.  Take  it  kindly,  for  it  is 
so  meant.  Your  "  Huggermugger "  was  a  considerable 
success  in  certain  quarters,  but  your  friends  did  not  think 
it  up  to  your  mark.  We  all  know  that  you  can  do  much 
better  if  you  choose  to  put  your  energies  to  work;  and 
now  you  must  do  so.  You  must  invent  a  new  story,  and 


TEN  YEARS  IN  EUROPE 

tell  it  in  a  livelier  and  sharper  way.  Make  the  sentences 
tingle.  Don't  get  lazy  over  it,  and  think  it  will  do  itself. 
Brace  up  your  faculties,  and  think  you  touch  gold  thereby. 
Here  is  a  chance  and  a  field  for  you.  "Take  the  instant 
way"  and  don't  let  the  golden  apple  slip  through  your 
hands.  I  pray  you  on  my  knees,  oh!  Cranch,  wake  up  to 
this  and  do  it  well.  Put  as  much  fun  as  possible  into  it. 
Be  gay  I  You  have  got  humor  and  we  know  it.  Now  dig  it 
up  and  send  it  over  to  us  in  lumps.  Be  lively  at  least  in 
your  story,  and  set  about  it  to-morrow.  Don't  begin  till 
you  have  settled  all  your  plot  in  your  mind;  and  if  you 
can,  let  it  hold  a  double  story,  an  internal  one  and  an 
external  one,  as  Andersen's  do,  so  that  the  wiseacres  shall 
like  it  as  well  as  the  children.  Read  "The  Little  Tin 
Soldier"  of  Andersen's,  "The  Ugly  Duckling,"  "The 
Emperor's  New  Clothes."  You  can  do  this  and  you  must. 
Your  "Huggermugger"  is  a  little  too  lachrymose  and  it 
is  n't  new  enough.  Still,  it  has  had  success.  .  .  .  Now, 
having  made  an  entering  wedge,  split  open  the  log.  You 
see  the  thing  is  worth  while.  Had  the  book  been  given  to 
Phillips,  Sampson  &  Co.  six  weeks  earlier,  all  the  edition 
would  have  been  sold  at  once  during  the  holidays.  So 
you  must  be  beforehand  with  this  new  work,  and  the  pub 
lishers  must  have  it  by  the  end  of  July,  certainly.  You 
must  make  the  illustrations,  and  be  sure  to  draw  them 
carefully.  There  is  my  advice.  I  have  only  your  good  at 
heart.  You  have  made  your  pedestal  —  now  put  your 
statue  on  it. 

I  shall  probably  see  you  in  the  latter  part  of  June.  We 
have  taken  our  passages  for  the  18th  to  Liverpool  by  the 
Arabia.  But  your  work  must  be  done,  or  nearly  done 
then.  Now  don't  delay. 

Your  Fontainebleau  picture,  which  Shaw  has,  was 
liked  very  much  by  Kensett  and  Tom  Appleton.  They 


CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 

think  you  have  made  a  great  push  ahead.   Study,  you 
rascal,  and  do  yourself  justice! 

To  his  brother  Edward 

PARIS,  September  14,  1856. 

I  was  just  thinking  of  writing  to  you  when  your  letter 
came.  You  have  n't  written  me  very  often,  nor  I  you. 
But  I  had  a  dream  the  other  night,  which  gave  me  a  jog, 
and  I  will  tell  it  to  you.  It  was  so  vivid  that  I  got  up  in 
the  night  and  wrote  it  down;  not  that  there's  anything 
in  it  to  tell,  but  it  was  so  beautiful  in  the  dreaming,  that  I 
determined  to  pin  it  down,  like  a  butterfly,  and  send  it  to 
you.  We  were  playing  a  duet  on  our  flutes.  The  tune  was 
as  distinct  as  if  I  heard  it,  every  note.  It  was  our  old  air, 
the  "Yellow-Haired  Laddie."  Our  flutes  were  in  splendid 
order,  and  we  played  the  tune  over  and  over,  as  if  practis 
ing  it,  with  innumerable  embellishments,  trills,  and  ca 
dences,  keeping  exactly  together  even  in  the  very  length 
and  smoothness  of  the  trills;  sometimes  you,  sometimes  I, 
taking  the  second.  I  thought  that  we  both  felt  consider 
able  satisfaction  in  our  performance.  We  talked  of  the 
Boehm  flute,  but  preferred  our  own  old-fashioned  ones. 
I  was  just  on  the  point  of  proposing  that  we  should  pub 
lish  a  book  of  our  tunes  with  our  own  arrangements,  when 
I  woke,  with  the  music  vibrating  in  my  ear.  I  lay  awake 
some  time  thinking  it  over.  Then  I  said  to  myself,  I  must 
write  to  Edward  and  send  him  my  dream.  Has  n't  it  too 
a  spiritual  significance?  Though  time  and  distance  have 
parted  us  for  years,  are  we  not  always  brothers  as  we  have 
ever  been?  How  seldom  we  write  to  each  other  now!  and 
yet  was  there  ever  from  boyhood  up  a  cold  or  unkind 
word  between  us!  and  did  not  our  souls  unite  and  har 
monize  as  perfectly  as  our  flutes  did? 

.  .  .  Last  June  I  sent  over  another  story,  a  continuation 


TEN  YEARS  IN  EUROPE  223 

of  the  "Huggermuggers,"  which  is  much  better  in  sub 
ject,  style,  and  in  the  designs.  Phillips  &  Sampson  are 
much  delighted  with  it,  and  say  no  expense  will  be  spared 
to  make  it  the  most  splendid  book  ever  published  in 
Boston.  This  is  pleasant  and  encouraging.  .  .  . 

The  following  are  extracts  from  the  Journal. 

BARBIZON,  October  25,  1856. 

Barbizon  is  a  little  village  situated  on  the  verge  of  the 
Forest  of  Fontainebleau.  It  consists  of  one  single  street, 
about  half  a  mile  long,  on  the  right  and  left  of  which  are 
little  one  or  two  story,  stone  houses,  inhabited  chiefly  by 
peasants.  Some  of  them  are  picturesque,  the  straw  being 
covered  with  rich  green  moss.  They  are  of  the  rudest 
construction,  and  mostly  old,  and  the  court  yards  in  front 
of  them  are  beautifully  ornamented  with  dunghills,  straw, 
wood  piles,  carts,  barrows,  and  other  farming  apparatus. 
Where  the  gravel  walk  should  be  conducting  from  the 
outer  gate  to  the  cottage,  is  usually  a  domestic  lake,  or 
puddle,  through  which  you  are  expected  to  walk,  as  the 
geese  do,  to  the  door,  if  you  have  anything  to  say  to  the 
occupant,  unless  you  prefer  the  soft  carpeting  of  straw 
and  manure  on  either  side,  where  the  chickens,  turkeys, 
and  all  manner  of  poultry  pick  and  scratch  for  a  living. 
One  or  two  little  flower  gardens  I  have  seen  and  some 
attempt  at  neatness  and  ornament,  for  there  are  two  or 
three  artists  of  some  reputation  who  live  in  Barbizon;  but 
I  think  these  innovators  on  dirt,  disorder,  and  ignorance 
must  be  looked  upon  as  the  aristocrats  of  the  village. 

Barbizon  has  been  for  some  time  the  resort  of  artists, 
who  come  down  here  to  study  and  paint  in  the  magnifi 
cent  Forest  of  Fontainebleau.  There  are  two  hotels  or 
taverns  in  the  place:  Gauve's  and  Vannier's.  The  former 
seems  to  be  the  most  popular  at  present  with  the  brothers 


224     CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 

of  the  brush.  Formerly  Vannier's  had  the  preference,  and 
the  salle-a-manger  is  handsomely  adorned  with  paintings 
on  the  walls  by  various  artists  who  have  been  guests 
there.  I  cannot  say  anything  about  Gauve's  tavern,  as  I 
have  never  stayed  there. 

Of  my  life  here,  I  shall  give  a  sketch.  I  arrive  after 
sundown,  a  chilly  October  evening.  I  am  welcomed  by 
Madame  Vannier,  a  good-looking  young  peasant  woman 
dressed  in  the  costume  of  the  country,  the  first  peculiarity 
of  which,  though  it  is  a  costume,  common  I  believe,  to 
all  the  country  towns  around  Paris,  is  a  handkerchief 
wrapped  all  around  the  head  and  entirely  concealing  the 
hair.  Madame  Vannier  would  be  better  looking  still  if 
her  hair  could  be  seen.  But  it  seems  as  if  all  the  country 
women,  and  even  the  little  girls,  are  forbidden  to  show 
their  hair  —  as  if  it  were  something  to  be  ashamed  of. 

I  dine  very  simply,  smoke  my  pipe  or  cigar,  and  read  a 
little  over  a  few  reluctant  brands  in  the  deep  fire-place  of 
the  salle-d^manger  and  retire  at  9  o'clock,  the  fashionable 
hour  here  for  so  doing.  But  as  I  am  going  to  journalize  I 
must  begin  with  the  day.  I  rise  early  then  and  breakfast 
on  cafe-au-lait,  toast  and  butter.  Then  I  get  my  painting 
box  in  order,  and  strap  it  over  my  back;  shoulder  my 
bundle  composed  of  painting  umbrella  and  pique,  stool 
and  easel,  and  receive  from  Madame  Vannier  my  pochon 
—  a  sack  containing  my  lunch  or  second  breakfast,  which 
I  hang  on  my  shoulder.  Thus  accoutred  I  tramp  to  the 
fields.  Arriving  at  the  spot  chosen  for  my  day's  or  morn 
ing's  work,  I  unpack  umbrella,  easel,  stool,  and  pochon 
and  set  to  work.  At  12  or  1,  I  lunch.  My  second  break 
fast  consists  of  a  hunch  of  dry  bread,  a  piece  of  meat,  a 
scrap  of  cheese  or  sausage,  salt,  a  pear,  and  a  half  bottle 
of  sour  wine.  But  what  a  glorious  appetite  one  has  work 
ing  out  of  doors!  The  plainest  fare  has  a  relish  unknown 


TEN  YEARS  IN  EUROPE  225 

to  the  dweller  at  home.  After  lunch  a  cigar  or  pipe,  and 
then  work  again,  or  else  roam  about  in  search  of  subjects, 
or  to  study  the  trees  and  rocks,  till  near  sundown,  when  I 
return  to  my  inn. 

But  now  comes  the  prosaic,  and  by  no  means  enliven 
ing,  part  of  the  day.  At  present  I  happen  to  be  alone 
here.  So  I  have  to  fall  upon  my  own  resources,  to  lighten 
the  slow  dull  hours  till  bed  time.  There  is  a  considerable 
difference  between  life  out  of  doors,  and  life  in  doors  here. 
I  come  back  to  a  cold  room;  a  cold  salle-a-manger,  with 
cold  brick  floors,  and  dinner  not  ready.  About  six  it 
comes  on  table.  A  huge  loaf  of  dry  bread,  a  bottle  of  sour 
wine,  pewter  spoons  and  forks.  Then  first,  soup  —  poor 
enough  —  often  a  soupe  maigre,  or  a  soupe  a  Uoseille,  with 
lots  of  bread  soaked  in  it;  then  boiled  meat;  then  a  roast, 
or  a  cutlet,  some  vegetable  —  either  potatoes  or  cauli 
flower,  and  I  remember  twice  having  one  artichoke.  We 
are  put  on  allowance  —  always  enough  to  be  sure,  but 
never  anything  left  over.  For  dessert  always  one  bunch 
of  grapes.  Once,  when  there  were  four  of  us,  we  had  each 
four  bad  walnuts  apiece.  O !  I  forgot  the  salad !  We  have 
that,  and  Chevon  always  dresses  it,  whether  we  want  it 
or  not,  for  he  said,  otherwise  it  would  appear  again,  the 
same  salad,  to-morrow.  After  dinner  comes  the  luxury  of 
a  fire  to  warm  our  shivering  limbs.  But  what  a  fire !  We 
always  had  to  ask  for  it,  and  when  it  came,  it  was  always 
two  or  three  cat-sticks  or  twigs,  and  one  chunk  of  as 
bestos;  and  the  evening  was  divided  between  our  pipes, 
and  punching  and  blowing  this  unwilling  and  sulking  fire. 
When  the  cat-sticks  burned  out,  all  was  over  with  it. 
Never  did  I  see  such  wood !  It  must  have  been  artificially 
prepared  and  warranted  not  to  ignite.  Over  and  over  the 
chunk  was  turned,  like  an  uneasy  sleeper,  on  its  bed  of 
ashes  and  dull  coals;  but  no  flame  could  be  got  out  of  it. 


226    CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 

Then  the  tallow  candles  gave  us  some  occupation,  as  they 
required  to  be  snuffed  every  five  minutes.  And  so,  with 
punching  the  asbestos  chunk,  and  drinking  the  remainder 
of  our  sour  wine,  and  lighting  fresh  pipes,  the  long  evening 
wore  away. 

Now,  being  alone,  it  is  longer  than  ever.  The  bed 
chamber  is  as  cold  and  cheerless  as  below  stairs;  brick 
floor,  and  not  a  rag  of  a  carpet  or  rug  to  stand  on,  before 
getting  into  bed.  No  furniture  but  a  chair  and  a  table. 
Cold,  coarse  linen  sheets;  sometimes  dampish  —  but  I 
blew  up  Madame  about  that  —  no  woollen  blankets,  and 
the  bed  so  short  that  I  have  to  lie  diagonally  and  dream 
transversely.  In  the  morning  I  wash  myself  in  a  basin  of 
the  size  of  a  breakfast  plate,  and  I  wipe  myself  on  a  cot 
ton  towel  the  size  of  a  napkin,  and  tie  my  cravat  at  a 
glass  six  inches  by  three  and  one  half,  an  aggravating 
glass  too,  which  distorts  my  face  horribly,  and  makes  me 
look  like  four  or  five  ugly  men  caricatured. 

The  country  people  here  seem  to  be  of  the  roughest 
sort:  sordid,  close,  ignorant,  superstitious,  coarse,  loud- 
tongued,  unmusical  and  altogether  of  the  earth  earthy. 
When  they  converse,  they  scream  at  each  other,  like 
geese.  The  talk  of  the  men  is  like  the  barking  of  dogs. 
That  of  the  women  like  the  screaming  of  peacocks,  and 
such  lungs !  Madame  Vannier  is  one  of  the  most  refined 
of  them,  I  dare  say.  But  Madame  is  ajeune  avare,  thinks 
of  nothing  but  francs  and  sous,  and  how  to  save  and 
scrimp.  Two  tallow  candles  for  one  person  would  horrify 
her;  more  than  three  cat-sticks  and  one  asbestos,  or  gutta 
percha  chunk  on  the  fire,  would  greatly  astound  her. 
The  other  day  she  begged  me  to  give  notice  the  day  before 
I  went  away,  because  otherwise  the  extra  meat  that  was 
provided  was  wasted. 

.  .  .  Friday  evening.   The  last  day  of  October.    I  am 


TEN  YEARS  IN  EUROPE  227 

still  here,  working  hard  all  day  in  the  Forest  and  spending 
my  evenings  alone.  I  am  getting  so  that  I  cannot  speak  a 
sentence  in  French  straight.  I  have  forgotten  how  my 
own  voice  sounds.  Moreover,  I  was  so  foolish  as  to  bring 
hardly  any  books.  I  can't  write.  The  room  is  too  cold, 
and  my  wits  grow  torpid  for  want  of  stimulus.  I  told 
Madame  Vannier,  this  evening,  that  I  thought  I  should 
leave  to-morrow.  She  said  she  had  bought  a  quantity  of 
meat,  and  that  I  must  stay  to  eat  it,  and  not  go  till  Mon 
day.  .  .  .  The  weather  has  been  splendid :  cold  and  frosty 
in  the  mornings,  but  under  the  shelter  of  the  rocks  I  can 
work  comfortably.  The  color  of  the  trees  is  at  its  finest; 
not  equal,  of  course,  to  our  American  October,  but  fine 
for  Europe.  My  spot  for  studies  is  where  I  have  been 
painting,  on  the  rocky  side  of  the  Pave  or  Grande  Route, 
next  the  open  space  where  the  oaks  are.  Here  you  have  a 
specimen  of  everything  for  which  the  Forest  is  charac 
teristic.  Fine  oaks,  beeches,  and  birches.  Rocks  covered 
with  moss  and  lichens,  interspersed  with  trees,  and  piled 
up  on  the  hillside  in  wild  and  savage  grandeur.  And  a 
pleasant,  sheltered  spot  it  is  these  cold  days.  Then  it  is 
near  the  great  road  where  travellers  and  artists  frequently 
pass,  which  prevents  it  from  being  too  lonely.  And  the 
distance  is  about  a  pleasant  walk  from  Barbizon.  The 
trees  are  full  of  red  squirrels;  it  is  a  pleasant  sight  to  see 
them  passing  up  and  down  the  trunks,  and  from  the 
boughs  of  one  tree  to  another.  Over  the  woods  of  the  Bas 
Breau,  on  the  other  side  the  road,  the  crows  scream  them 
selves  hoarse,  and  at  night  the  owls  hoot  dismally. 

This  reminds  me  of  the  night  of  the  eclipse  a  few  weeks 
ago,  when  I  heard  three  owls,  as  I  walked  through  the 
Forest  with  some  artists.  It  was  a  splendid  moonlight 
when  we  started.  None  of  us  knew  of  the  eclipse.  Very 
soon  I  discovered  that  a  piece  of  her  ladyship  was  over- 


228    CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 

shadowed  by  the  earth.  We  were  on  our  way  through  the 
Gorge  d'Apremont.  As  we  descended  the  valley,  a  fog 
lay  below,  with  precisely  the  appearance  of  a  lake.  We 
walked  down  to  the  Dormoir,  and  around  through  the 
woods  to  the  Pave.  How  solemn  it  was  in  the  Forest !  In 
some  places  almost  pitch  dark,  and  the  faint  eclipse  light 
falling  here  and  there  in  dim  white  patches  —  unearthly 
and  mysterious.  Beethoven's  moonlight  sonata  describes 
it  better  than  anything  I  can  write.  We  had  a  long  walk 
of  it  and  returned  late  to  Barbizon. 

I  wonder  if  Madame  Vannier's  meat  will  spoil,  if  I 
leave  to-morrow. 

In  his  usual  unselfish  way,  Mr.  Curtis  writes  a 
long  letter  regarding  Mr.  Cranch's  business  affairs, 
in  which  the  writer  was  untiringly  helpful,  before 
announcing  the  most  important  of  personal  news. 

George  William  Curtis  to  Mr.  Cranck 

STATEN  ISLAND,  December  28,  1856. 

.  .  .  For  the  "Pegasus"  I  shall  have  difficulty  in  finding 
a  publisher.  The  Boston  men  decline  it,  and  the  New 
Yorkers  eschew  poetry.  My  advice  is  to  let  it  lie,  and  to 
write  Christmas  stories.  By  and  by  there  will  be  half  a 
dozen,  —  a  set,  each  helping  all,  and  all  each.  Your  name 
thus  becomes  associated  with  the  holidays.  Children  will 
think  of  Santa  Claus  and  Cranch  as  brothers.  If  they  see 
you  they  will  fancy  they  see  him.  The  two  stories  you 
have  published  have  been  a  decided  success.  My  criti 
cism  would  be  that  there  must  be  a  little  more  definite 
result.  Children  require  the  pot  of  peace  in  which  the 
hero  and  the  heroine  are  to  live  and  die  happily.  ^ 

And  of  all  things,  use  me.  Let  me  contract  and  do  the 
work.  One  man  on  the  spot  is  worth  twenty  in  Paris. 


TEN  YEARS  IN  EUROPE  229 

And  so,  put  another  Christmas  story  on  the  stocks  and 
go  to  work  of  evenings  upon  your  acquaintance  with 
Couture  and  the  rest.1  And  if  you  don't  know  them,  go 
and  be  introduced  and  see;  for  the  point  is  to  have  the 
account  a  personal  experience. 

.  .  .  Your  last  letter,  November  10,  came  into  my  hands 
upon  my  wedding  day,  and  even  as  I  stood  robed  and 
ready  for  the  happiness  that  was  waiting.  There  had 
been  a  chilly  storm  all  the  day  before  and  night,  but 
about  nine  in  the  morning  of  the  26th  of  November, 
June  came  back  again,  —  the  windows  and  doors  were 
open.  There  might  have  been  roses  upon  the  lawn,  as 
there  were  in  the  cheeks  of  my  bride,  and  in  the  softest 
summer  sunshine  and  among  a  few  of  our  nearest  and 
dearest,  your  letter  in  my  pocket  all  the  time,  to  represent 
you  and  Lizzie,  —  we  were  married.  Perhaps  there  was 
never  a  wedding  with  so  little  cloud,  and  if  I  can  blow  it 
off,  there  will  never  be  any  more  in  the  married  life  than 
there  was  in  the  marrying. 

Mr.  Cranch  to  his  sister,  Mrs.  Eliot 

PARIS,  November  12,  1857. 

I  can't  let  slip  so  good  an  opportunity  of  writing  to  you, 
if  only  a  line.  Miss  C.  leaves  in  a  few  days,  and  as  she  has 
seen  us  all,  she  will  be  able  to  tell  you  of  our  welfare.  I 
hope  your  health  does  not  suffer,  nor  the  spirits  you  used 
to  enjoy  in  the  old  times,  when  we  were  together.  And 
how  is  William's  health,  and  have  you  suffered  pecunia 
rily  by  the  Crise,  which  is  upsetting  everybody's  pot  and 
kettle  in  Christendom?  That's  the  absorbing  topic  now, 
here,  as  well  as  in  America.  A  friend  of  mine  writes  from 
New  York  in  the  Oriental  style  that  the  end  of  the  world 

1  Mr.  Curtis  had  begged  his  friend  to  write  a  letter  about  the 
studios  and  the  artists  of  Paris  for  Putnam's  Magazine.  J 


230    CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 

is  at  hand.  Do  you  remember  the  old  story  of  the  "Rope 
that  began  to  hang  the  Butcher,  and  the  Butcher  that 
began  to  kill  the  Ox?"  etc.  Well,  that  is  the  play  that 
seems  to  be  going  on  at  present,  only  on  a  tremendously 
large  stage.  We  are  somewhere  about  at  the  beginning  of 
the  story,  I  think.  "Water,  water,  quench  fire,  fire  won't 
burn  stick,  stick  won't  beat  dog,"  but  we  all  hope  that  in 
the  end  the  pig  will  go,  proverbially  obstinate  as  the  ani 
mal  may  be.  These  are  the  days  foretold  by  that  ancient 
myth,  that  it  might  be  fulfilled,  which  was  spoken  by 
Mother  Goose  and  the  other  prophets.  "There  was  an 
old  woman  who  was  sweeping  her  house  one  day  and 
found  a  silver  penny,"  etc. 

But  seriously,  it  is  dreadful  to  think  of,  especially  for 
the  poor  laborers  and  mechanics.  Heaven  only  knows 
what  the  end  is  to  be.  As  for  ourselves,  we  have  had 
nothing  to  lose.  We  have  had  no  banker  these  three 
years,  and  could  n't  fail.  "He  that  is  down,  need  fear  no 
fall."  At  our  most  prosperous  times,  we  never  see  ahead 
more  than  a  few  months ;  so  we  have  been  comparatively 
easy  in  this  universal  crash.  But  what  the  future  is  to  be 
is  always  an  uncertainty  with  me.  The  artist  must  suffer, 
because  art  is  a  luxury,  and  the  day  of  luxuries  is  over. 
Still  I  hope  for  better  times. 

I  don't  know  what  we  should  have  done,  had  I  not  been 
so  fortunate  this  summer  and  fall,  as  to  sell  about  $600 
worth  of  pictures;  principally  to  some  Chicago  people.  I 
was  enabled  to  make  a  flying  trip  to  Switzerland  for  the 
first  time,  and  have  painted  several  Swiss  pictures.  .  .  . 
Some  day  we  shall  all  come  back  to  America,  but  not 
yet.  It  costs  too  much  to  live  in  New  York.  Meanwhile, 
my  dear  sister,  remember  always  your  affectionate 
brother. 


TEN  YEARS  IN  EUROPE  231 

W.  W.  Story  to  Mr.  Cranch 

ROME,  February  6,  1858. 

Your  very  pleasant  letterlet  reached  me  a  few  days  ago 
and  was  read  in  full  conclave,  Wild  present,  with  the 
entire  satisfaction  of  the  company.  You  see  that  I  am 
good  and  answer  immediately,  so  as  to  show  you  a  good 
example,  and  by  way  of  gratifying  a  most  Christian 
feeling  of  heaping  coals  of  fire,  etc. 

I  saw  by  the  outside  cover  of  the  "Atlantic  Monthly" 
that  "Kobboltozo"  has  at  last  appeared,  and  I  hope  that 
it  will  "put  money  in  your  purse."  The  designs,  which 
were  all  I  ever  saw,  were  very  admirable,  and  if  they 
have  been  done  justice  to,  your  book  cannot  fail  to  suc 
ceed. 

What  are  you  at  now  of  new?  Burrow  and  dig  out  of 
that  brain  of  yours  something  else  or  "never  more  be 
officer  of  mine."  You  see  already  by  my  two  quotations 
that  Othello  is  in  my  head,  and  how  should  it  be  other 
wise  since  hearing  Salvini  the  other  night  perform  the 
Moor  so  as  to  leave  nothing  to  be  asked.  His  impersona 
tion  is  magnificent,  and  if  Salvini  goes  to  Paris  again,  as 
he  probably  will,  do  not  miss  the  opportunity  of  hearing 
him.  You  of  course  being  in  Paris  will  pay  Parisian 
prices  for  that  pleasure;  but  here  we  can  listen  to  him  any 
night  for  two  pauls,  and  we  have  a  box  every  fourth  night 
of  the  whole  season  for  eighteen  dollars.  So  we  all  go.  .  .  . 

Here  we  have  had  a  wonderful  season  —  cold,  but  con 
stant  in  sunniness.  The  day  before  yesterday,  however, 
the  pot  cracked,  and  for  forty-eight  hours  the  rain  has 
river ed  the  streets.  Such  a  carnival  as  there  has  been  for 
these  two  days.  Mud  arid  confetti  in  equal  doses  with 
masses  of  wet  flowers  to  fling  in  the  faces  of  friends.  What 
inimitable  good  humor  there  is  in  the  Corso,  despite  the 
rain!  The  black  eyes  laugh,  and  the  merry  voices  ring 


232    CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 

from  the  contadini,  drenched  to  the  skin  though  they  are, 
and  their  six  months'  savings  lost  in  their  spoiled  cos 
tumes.  Ma  pazienza!  .  .  . 

\-  Hatty  Hosmer  is  here,  —  and  by  the  way,  I  nearly  for 
got  my  promise  to  her.  She  came  to  my  studio  the  other 
day  really  exercised  in  mind  upon  a  costume  and  head  of 
Zenobia  of  whom  she  is  intending  to  make  a  statue.  I 
said,  **  Write  to  Paris  —  Bibliotheque  Imperiale —  fine 
head  and  costume."  "No  friend,"  she  said.  I  responded, 
"Cranch  is  an  active,  tremendously  energetic  fellow. 
Write  to  him  and  ask  him  to  go  to  the  Bibliotheque  and 
get  a  sketch  of  costume  and  head  for  you."  "Don't  know 
him  well  enough,"  she  said.  "I  do,  and  I  will  write  and 
ask  him."  "Do,"  she  said,  "and  it  will  be  sure  to  be  done 
if  he  is  as  energetic  as  you  say." 

There  is  a  job  for  you.  Don't  swear,  but  expend  a  sou 
in  tracing  paper,  go  to  the  Bibliotheque,  trace  a  head  and 
,  dress  of  Zenobia  if  you  can  find  one,  and  send  it  to  me. 
That 's  a  good  fellow.  Any  information  on  Zenobia  grate 
fully  received  by  H.  H.  .  .  . 

Remember  me  warmly  to  Greenough  —  he  ought  to  be 
here.  Rome  is  really  the  only  place  to  live  in.  One  only 
stays  in  Paris. 

Mr.  Cranch  to  his  wife 

FONTAINEBLEAU,  May,  1858. 

In  spite  of  the  rain  I  have  worked  hard  every  day,  and 
have  finished  two  pictures.  The  first,  the  Charlemagne 
Oak,  or  what  remains  of  it;  the  other,  ditto,  in  a  clump 
with  two  others.  They  are  as  good,  perhaps  better,  than 
any  three  studies  I  have  made.  While  painting  at  the 
latter,  yesterday  afternoon,  there  came  a  fay  re  Ladye 
pacing  up  the  valley  on  a  palfrey,  who  looked  at  the 
painting,  priced  it,  and  ordered  it  —  that  is  spoke  for  it. 


TEN  YEARS  IN  EUROPE  233 

And  who  do  you  suppose  it  was?  Mrs.  H.,  who  is  staying 
at  the  hotel  where  I  am.  .  .  . 

There  is  material  here  for  months  and  months,  and  I 
wish  I  could  afford  to  stay.  .  .  .  Every  moment  is  pre 
cious.  We  work  often  till  7  o'clock.  If  Mrs.  H.  pays  me 
for  the  study,  I  may  stay  longer,  except  that  I  have  n't 
clothes  enough,  for  I  brought  my  old  things  as  if  I  were 
going  to  rough  Barbizon;  here  one  must  go  more  decent 
and  respectable.  I  should  like  to  have  painted  some  open 
scenes;  spring  fields  and  distances,  and  may  yet,  but 
there  is  nothing  like  the  Forest.  One  could  paint  here 
forever  and  always  find  something  new.  It  is  popular 
too;  not  a  day  passes  that  visitors  do  not  come,  searching 
out  the  noted  trees  and  rocks,  as  they  would  chef  d'ceuvres 
in  a  gallery. 

LUCERNE,  September  15, 1858. 

.  .  .  When  I  last  wrote  from  Interlachen,  it  was  raining, 
and  everything  was  at  a  standstill.  Well,  it  rained  three 
dreary  days,  then  cleared  up.  The  first  clear  day,  though 
it  was  not  quite  clear,  I  went  to  the  top  of  a  mountain  and 
made  an  oil  sketch  of  the  Jungfrau.  The  next  day,  Fri 
day,  went  up  the  Lake  of  Brienz  and  did  the  Falls  of  the 
Giessbach,  but  found  them  not  good  enough  to  sketch. 
Saturday  started  on  our  pedestrian  journey,  up  the  valley 
of  the  Lauterbrunnen  —  made  one  sketch  of  a  lovely 
scene,  which  I  shall  paint,  saw  the  famous  Staubbach 
Fall,  then  up  the  Wengern  Alps,  where  we  slept.  Sunday 
walked  to  Grindelwald  and  saw  the  Glacier;  Monday  to 
Meyringen  where  we  slept.  Tuesday  (yesterday),  down 
the  Brunig  to  Alpnach,  and  steamboat  to  Lucerne.  All 
this  was  on  foot,  a  journey  to  be  remembered  all  my  life. 
I  can't  begin  to  give  you  the  least  idea  of  this  wonderful 
scenery.  It  has  far  surpassed  all  my  anticipations,  and 


234     CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 

such  splendid  weather.  In  the  course  of  the  whole  year 
we  could  not  have  been  more  favored. 

If  I  begin  to  describe  anything,  I  shan't  know  where  to 
begin  or  where  to  leave  off.  And  we  have  to  go  up  the 
Lake  of  Lucerne  to-day  and  so  have  no  time. 

This  journey  over  the  Bernese  Oberland  is  one  of  the 
finest  in  all  Switzerland.  Lauterbrunnen,  the  Staubbach, 
the  Wengern  Alps,  the  Jungfrau,  the  Monch,  the  Eiger, 
the  Welterhorn,  the  Wallhorn,  Schreckhorn,  Grindel- 
wald,  Meyringen,  etc.,  etc.,  all  have  so  completely  filled 
my  mind  that  I  just  want  to  pour  out  like  these  abundant 
torrents  and  waterfalls,  which  I  have  been  seeing  all 
along,  but  I  can't  do  it  on  paper  and  in  a  hurry.  I  shall 
thank  Providence  all  my  life  that  I  came. 

I  have  made  some  good  sketches,  but  you  must  not 
judge  of  what  I  shall  do,  and  of  what  I  have  in  my  mem 
ory  and  imagination,  from  the  meager  outlines  which  I 
bring  back.  If  you  see  only  these,  you  will  be  disap 
pointed  perhaps,  but  if  you  felt  as  I  do,  how  a  whole  new 
set  of  forms,  and  suggestions  for  pictures,  has  been 
stamped  on  my  brain,  how  entirely  this  journey  has  filled 
me  with  images  of  grandeur  and  loveliness,  of  which  I  can 
give  you  no  possible  idea,  even  had  I  leisure,  you  would 
rejoice  as  I  do  that  I  came,  and  think  it  well  worth  the 
cost.  .  .  . 

ROME,  November  18,  1858. 

Last  evening  I  dined  with  the  Storys  in  their  huge 
Barberini  Palace.  You  go  up,  I  don't  know  how  many 
broad  stone  flights  of  stairs,  and  they  live  at  the  top  of 
the  palace.  Two  servants  appeared,  and  after  going 
through  several  enormous  rooms  I  found  Mrs.  Emelyn 
and  Edie  sitting  by  a  fire  in  a  huge  dining-room.  A  little 
while  after,  William  came  in  and  was  greatly  surprised 


TEN  YEARS  IN  EUROPE  235 

to  see  me.  I  find  them  unchanged  and  just  as  hearty  and 
good  as  ever.  We  had  a  simple  dinner,  and  an  Italian 
physician,  a  friend  of  the  Storys  came  in,  but  did  not 
dine;  a  very  nice  man  with  a  good  face.  After  dinner  we 
went  through  five  or  six  more  enormous  rooms,  till  we 
came  to  one  where  we  smoked;  and  after  that  there  was  a 
little  party  of  friends  gathered  together  in  the  big  dining- 
room,  where  Edie  and  several  other  children  took  a  danc 
ing-lesson.  .  .  .  Story  has  advanced  very  much  in  his 
later  works.  His  "Hero"  and  his  " Margaret"  are  very 
fine,  but  his  "Cleopatra"  is  great.  I  have  seen  no  mod 
ern  statue,  American  or  European,  that  impressed  me 
so  much. 

After  Paris,  Rome  looks  old  and  dingy  enough,  but  so 
natural.  Yesterday  morning  I  saw  old  Beppo  with  the 
withered  legs  at  his  post  on  the  stairs.  His  head  is  quite 
white.  He  has  got  to  be  an  old  man,  but  his  face  is  as 
jolly  as  ever,  and  the  same  wheedling  voice,  with  his 
"Buon  giorno,  Signore."  I  deliberately  stopped,  opened 
my  purse,  took  out  a  heavy  two  baioccho  piece  and 
dropped  it  in  his  hat,  —  for  the  sake  of  old  times.  I  told 
him  it  was  ten  years  since  I  had  seen  him,  whereupon  he 
smiled  sweetly  and  enquired  after  my  family.  I  could  as 
little  have  missed  old  Beppo  in  Rome,  and  on  his  old 
place,  as  I  could  have  missed  the  boat  fountain  at  the 
bottom  of  the  Spanish  Stairs.  .  .  .  The  other  day  I  saw 
a  woman  who  was  a  servant  of  ours.  I  had  forgotten  her, 
but  she  remembered  me,  and  asked  after  you  and  Geor- 
gino,  and  kissed  my  hand. 

ROME,  December  15,  1859. 

Though  I  have  had  no  new  orders  or  sales,  I  feel  some 
how  encouraged.  I  have  painted  two  pretty  large  pic 
tures,  and  feel  a  good  deal  of  satisfaction  in  them,  and  in 


236    CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 

the  praises  of  the  artists  and  visitors  who  have  seen  them. 
My  forest  scene  is  about  finished,  the  best  forest  picture 
I  have  ever  done.  You  remember  the  study,  —  that 
shady  one,  with  the  large  beaches  on  the  right.  I  have 
opened  the  woods  a  little  on  the  left  with  a  little  bit  of 
blue  sky  and  dim  horizon  —  two  figures  in  [the  distance. 
The  beach  trunks  are  painted  firm  and  round  and  mossy 
and  full  of  color  and  impasta,  also  the  oaks  and  the  foliage 
thoroughly  leafy  and  loose,  the  chief  light  being  strong 
sunshine  between  the  trees.  The  ground  is  solid  and  the 
dry  leaves  well  indicated.  You  can  walk  right  into  the 
picture.  On  the  whole  it  pleases  me  better  than  anything 
I  have  done.  Page  saw  it  the  other  day  and  praised  it 
much.  Several  artists  have  done  the  same,  —  I  want  it 
to  go  to  New  York.  I  will  show  them  that  I  can  paint 
trees  as  well  as  some  others  over  there. 

My  "Lake  of  Lucerne"  also  is  much  praised.  The  sky 
is  glowing  with  light.  It  is  near  sunset,  the  rays  breaking 
through  the  clouds  and  flooding  the  distant  mountain. 
The  distance  even  you  would  think  distant.  The  water 
reflects  the  light  of  the  sky,  and  is  warm  and  still  and 
glowing,  —  a  boat  and  figures  on  the  right,  and  a  reedy 
flat  foreground,  —  a  boat  with  pointed  sails  in  the  middle 
distance. 

My  studio  is  only  a  few  doors  nearer  the  Spanish 
Stairs  than  we  lived  ten  years  ago.  It  is  quite  large.  Two 
windows  open  to  the  east  with  shutters  to  keep  out  the 
light  when  I  paint,  and  to  let  in  the  Italian  sunshine  in 
the  morning  when  I  want  it.  One  of  the  windows  opens 
on  a  balcony  and  loggia,  where  I  keep  my  wood.  They 
have  put  me  up  the  oddest-looking  stove,  of  a  decidedly 
monumental  pattern,  not  unlike  a  tombstone,  and  of  an 
indescribable  grey  color.  The  pipe  goes  out  of  the  window 
with  a  sort  of  Roman  twist,  and  both  it  and  the  stove  are 


TEN  YEARS  IN  EUROPE  237 

well  smeared  with  mud  to  stop  the  cracks  and  keep  smoke 
from  coming  out  except  at  the  right  place.  I  have  laid  in 
my  wood  for  the  winter.  And  do  you  remember  the 
bundles  of  cane  we  used  to  kindle  the  fires  with?  I  had 
quite  forgotten  them.  Now  they  revive  old  memories  of 
the  Quattro  Fontane  and  of  Michelina. 

...  I  wish  you  could  look  in  and  see  how  comfortable  I 
am  here.  All  day  long  the  sun  lies  in  my  chamber,  which 
is  large  and  airy.  My  tombstone  stove  in  the  studio  is 
better  than  it  looks.  It  takes  very  little  wood  to  heat  it, 
and  the  chunks  have  a  marvellous  vitality,  for  I  always 
find  something  left  when  I  return  from  dinner.  Then  if  I 
spend  the  evening  at  home,  I  transfer  my  brands  to  the 
fireplace  in  my  chamber,  which  with  a  good  fire,  such  as  is 
now  burning  before  me,  and  the  very  comfortable  arm 
chair,  a  poltrone  as  they  call  it,  becomes  as  cheerful  by 
night  as  it  is  by  day. 

ROME,  January  20,  1859. 

Every  evening  this  week  past  has  been  occupied  with 
visits  or  parties,  except  one,  when  I  fully  intended  com 
mencing  a  letter  to  you;  but  I  felt  lazy  and  asked  Mr. 
Clarke  at  the  cafe  to  come  in,  and  I  read  him  my  poetry 
all  the  evening.  This  Mr.  Clarke,1  I  have  come  to  like 
very  much.  He  seems  to  need  society  and  has  taken  a 
great  fancy  to  me  and  my  verses.  He  is  a  very  cultivated 
and  refined  person,  which  one  can't  say  for  the  majority 
of  the  artists  here,  —  besides  which,  he  knows  people  who 
buy  pictures,  and  the  other  day  brought  a  Colonel  Green 
to  my  studio,  a  young  man  of  wealth,  who  has  invented  a 
new  rifle,  which  beats  the  Minie  rifle.  He  has  been  to  the 
East  and  has  tested  the  merits  of  his  gun  before  the  Pasha 
with  Minie  himself.  He  has  now  gone  to  Sardinia  to  lay 
1  Gardiner  Hubbard  Clarke. 


238    CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE   CRANCH 

his  invention  before  King  Victor  Emanuel,  and  if  he  is 
successful,  he  promises  to  buy  my  "  Hudson  River,"  and 
Story's  "  Hero." 

Last  Wednesday  evening  the  Storys  gave  a  great  ball  in 
their  palatial  rooms.  It  was  very  brilliant  —  altogether  the 
most  brilliant  party  of  the  season.  There  was  dancing 
all  the  evening,  and  some  four  or  five  rooms  open.  In 
many  of  the  Roman  houses  dancing  is  not  allowed  —  at 
Minister  Stockton's,  for  instance,  for  fear  the  ceiling 
would  cave  in.  There  were  lots  of  English  and  a  good 
many  Italians,  —  some  of  them  Contessas  and  Mar- 
chesas,  and  a  sprinkling  of  Americans :  some  of  the  Eng 
lish  women  very  handsome  and  a  great  show  of  dresses 
and  diamonds.  Mrs.  Emelyn  herself  looked  remarkably 
well. 

.  .  .  Wednesday  was  at  a  party  at  Miss  Cushman's,  her 
first  reception  in  her  new  apartment  in  the  Via  Grego- 
riana.  I  met  her  in  the  street  in  the  afternoon,  and  she 
asked  me  to  come  to  tea.  I  had  no  idea  of  meeting  a 
party.  However,  I  have  learned  by  experience  that  a 
social  evening  tea  means  a  dress  coat  and  so  was  pre 
pared.  Miss  Cushman  is  a  nice  cordial  genuine  woman. 
As  people  say,  "No  nonsense  about  her."  She  has  a 
lovely  apartment  newly  furnished  with  the  most  exqui 
site  taste,  with  old  carved  oak  furniture,  curtains,  pic 
tures,  and  statues.  .  .  .  Lots  of  Americans  I  knew  were 
at  Miss  Cushman's.  Miss  Cushman  sang  a  ballad  of 
Lockhart's  in  a  recitative  style.  Mrs.  Tilten  sang  Schu 
bert's  "Barcarolle,"  and  Rackeman  played.  .  .  . 

To-night  I  am  going  to  a  party  at  the  Sargents'. 
Everybody  is  to  be  there,  I  am  told  —  and  it  is  to  be  a 
white-glove  party.  I  have  found  a  French  degraisseur  on 
the  Corso  and  left  five  pairs  of  gloves  to  be  cleaned.  He 
and  his  wife  complain  bitterly  of  their  being  obliged  to 


CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 

Taken  in  Rome  in  1859 


TEN  YEARS  IN  EUROPE  239 

suspend  work  on  the  fete  days.  If  the  police  find  them 
working  on  fete  days,  they  are  fined  a  dollar  —  and  these 
fete  days  are  forever  coming.  I  don't  wonder  they  com 
plain.  I  told  them  I  agreed  with  them,  that  it  was  a 
tyranny  of  the  Church  and  Government,  and  that  they 
ought  to  be  paid  by  the  Government  for  all  the  days 
they  lose. 

Yesterday  I  went  to  Story's  to  get  the  address  of  a  hair- 
cutter,  when  we  had  a  discussion  about  my  hair.  It  re 
sulted  in  a  capillary  reform,  by  which  I  am  assured  I  am 
at  least  five  years  younger.  My  hair  is  cut,  and  I  wear  it 
henceforth  parted  in  the  middle,  and  my  beard  trimmed 
close  at  the  sides  and  long  in  front.  You  have  no  idea 
what  an  improvement  it  is.  I  wore  it  so  last  night,  and 
two  ladies  complimented  me  upon  the  change. 

ROME,  February  3,  1859. 

.  .  .  Monday  night  I  was  at  a  musical  party  at  the 
Perkins's.  Heard  some  fine  music  —  for  piano,  violin, 
and  violoncello.  The  latter  instrument  was  played  by  a 
brother  of  Mendelssohn,  and  there  was  a  young  lady  — 
niece  of  Mendelssohn,  very  pleasant  to  look  at  —  a  half 
Jewish  type  of  face,  very  classical.  Charles  P.  is  even 
more  pleasant  than  he  used  to  be.  .  .  .  Last  night  I  dined 
with  Story,  and  after  dinner  Miss  Cushman  came  in  by 
invitation,  to  hear  William  read  a  long,  half -dramatic 
poem  of  his  —  an  Italian  story,  very  tragical,  which  a 
lady  tells  of  herself.  It  is  by  far  Story's  best  poem,  very 
powerfully  wrought,  full  of  beautiful  thought  and  imag 
ery,  and  of  intense  passion.  It  occupied  about  an  hour 
and  a  half  in  reading.  Miss  Cushman  enjoyed  it  very 
much,  and  W.  read  it  well.  .  .  . 


240    CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 

ROME,  March  3,  1859. 

Your  letter  arrived  day  before  yesterday.  It  was  very 
good  and  very  entertaining.  I  am  glad  to  see  you  were 
dissipating  a  little  at  last.  Though  I  must  say  I  was  some 
what  startled  to  learn  of  your  Roget  investiture.  But 
what  are  you  going  to  do  without  bracelets  and  brooch 
and  all  that.  I  don't  see  but  I  must  follow  out  my  long- 
cherished  desire  to  get  you  one  or  two  handsome  gold 
Etruscan  bits  of  jewelry,  to  complete  you,  and  put  in  the 
finishing  touches.  I  only  wish  to  Heaven  you  could  have, 
as  you  ought  to  have,  everything  that  a  lady,  as  young- 
looking  and  handsome  as  you  are,  needs,  to  go  at  all  into 
society.  If  I  sell  two  or  three  large  pictures  in  Lent,  I 
shall  look  about  for  something  pretty,  not  exactly  dia 
monds  or  cinque  cento  lace,  but  better  and  more  accord 
ant  with  your  style.  At  present  the  Carnival  is  inundat 
ing  Rome,  and  especially  the  forestieri.  Such  a  looseness 
as  they  are  all  going  it  with.  The  Haggertys  and  Knee- 
lands  and  Motleys  and  Sargents  and  young  Mason  had 
one  balcony  among  them.  How  many  hundred  pounds  of 
confetti,  do  you  think  they  threw  away  the  first  day  only? 
About  seven  hundred.  They  kept  up  (especially  Sargent) 
a  perfect  hailstorm,  and  the  first  day  got  enough  of  the 
Carnival.  It  is  very  gay  this  year,  the  Carnival.  It  is  the 
first  year  since  the  Revolution  that  masks  are  allowed; 
so  you  may  imagine  how  they  would  rush  into  it.  I  have 
scarcely  dipped  into  it.  The  first  day  I  went  up  and  down 
the  Corso  on  foot,  with  Mr.  Clarke,  but  only  as  a  specta 
tor.  I  have  not  thrown  any  confetti  yet,  and  only  a  pauFs 
worth  of  flowers.  I  think  it  is  the  flowers  more  than  any 
thing  else  which  to  me  make  the  fascination  of  the  Car 
nival.  I  never  see  them  piled  up  and  spread  out  in  such 
tempting  show,  as  I  go  down  the  Condotti,  with  such  an 
inviting  freshness  about  them,  without  wishing  whole 


TEN  YEARS  IN  EUROPE  241 

basketsful  to  throw  to  the  handsome  women  that  illum 
inate  the  Corso  from  one  end  to  the  other.  What  endless 
chances  for  flirtation,  if  one  only  had  the  time  and  money 
and  animal  strength  and  spirits.  I  am  getting  too  old  for 
these  fooleries.  There  is  altogether  too  much  of  the  Car 
nival.  Yesterday  I  cut  it  entirely,  and  went  out  with 
Clarke  and  Mason  to  the  Pamfili  Doria,  where  it  was  very 
lovely;  the  air  perfect  spring  and  the  grounds  starred  all 
over  with  wild  geraniums,  daisies,  and  violets.  We  all 

said  with  one  accord  —  "D n  the  Carnival."    We 

gathered  handfuls  of  the  lovely  flowers  and  tied  them  up 
and  took  them  home.  .  .  . 

I  forgot  to  tell  you  that  I  saw  Salvini  in  "  Othello."  I 
never  saw  such  wonderful  acting  in  all  my  life.  It  was 
perfect.  Such  dignity,  such  ease,  such  nature,  —  the  re 
sult  of  the  most  consummate  art,  —  such  a  sympathetic 
and  musical  voice,  such  bursts  of  passion,  with  not  the 
slightest  rant.  It  left  nothing  to  be  desired.  He  looked 
the  complete  Moor  of  Venice.  Every  gesture,  look,  tone 
was  so  natural  that  I  was  completely  carried  away  by  my 
feelings.  Miss  Cushman,  who  saw  him  the  same  evening 
for  the  first  time  in  this  part,  told  me  she  had  never  seen 
anything  so  fine,  and  she  is  a  most  admirable  judge. 

ROME,  May  17,  1859. 

For  a  few  days  longer  you  must  content  yourself,  and 
the  children,  with  this  letter,  instead  of  me.  .  .  .  There  are 
still  some  things  to  be  done  and  seen  before  I  go,  — •  and 
it  is  not  very  probable  that  I  shall  be  in  Rome  again  very 
soon.  You  take  a  different  view  of  the  prospect  of  the 
war  being  over,  from  that  entertained  here  in  Rome.  Peo 
ple  here  seem  to  think  the  war  will  be  a  long  one,  and  that 
next  winter  there  will  be  nobody  in  Rome.  You,  in  Paris, 
naturally  take  the  bright  side  of  the  case,  for  there,  every- 


242    CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 

thing  looks  like  success  and  victory.  I  have  been  thinking 
a  good  deal,  that  the  best  course  may  be  to  go  back  to 
America.  ...  I  should  like  for  many  reasons  to  come  to 
Rome  for  a  year;  but  if  the  war  continues  there  will  be  no 
forestieri  here,  and  more  fleas  than  ever.  And  if  we  are 
going  back  to  New  York,  why  not  go  now,  instead  of  two 
years  hence.  But  we  will  talk  this  over,  when  I  return. 
We  can't  decide  upon  anything  yet.  ... 

George  William  Curtis  to  Mr.  Cranch 

NORTH  SHORE,  STATEN  ISLAND, 
July  6,  1859. 

Yesterday  I  received  your  photograph  and  your  note  of 
June  2.  The  dear  old  phiz  was  very  natural,  and  Burrill 
had  told  me  it  was  only  a  little  greyer  in  the  hair.  My 
wife,  Nannie,  said  it  made  her  homesick,  because  it 
brought  back  the  thought  of  the  happy  foreign  days.  You 
know  they  always  seem  to  us  happy  when  we  are  on  this 
side,  and  I  follow  the  armies  in  Italy  with  a  sort  of  ro 
mantic  pleasure  that  people  who  have  not  been  there 
cannot  conceive. 

I  see  that  you  are  blue.  I  wish  I  could  do  something  to 
take  out  the  indigo.  When  I  think  of  your  coming  home 
and  look  round  to  study  the  chances,  I  see  the  old  chaps 
scrabbling  alone  in  the  old  way.  Church  is  considered  by 
the  public,  King.  Then  comes  Kensett.  They  have 
plenty  to  do,  and  good  pay.  Tom  Hicks  paints  away.  .  .  . 
The  others  of  the  old  line  are  at  the  old  thing  in  the  old 
way;  among  the  new  there  is  no  very  eminent  name. 

Undoubtedly,  there  is  a  greater  general  respect  for  art 
and  artists  here.  It  is  quite  "the  thing"  to  know  them 
and  to  have  them.  Then  Belmont  and  Aspinwall  and 
Wright,  at  Hoboken,  open  their  galleries  as  marquises  do 
in  London  to  ticketed  people.  ...  I  should  say  that  the 


TEN  YEARS  IN  EUROPE  243 

chances  are  rather  more  favorable  than  they  used  to  be. 
But  it  is  in  your  art  as  in  mine  —  a  few  draw  the  prizes. 
A  great  many  of  your  friends  wish  you  would  try  drawing 
on  wood.  There  is  more  demand  a  good  deal  than  there 
used  to  be,  and  a  good  many  more  workers.  A  man  must 
be  on  the  spot  and  have  a  certain  chic,  and  then  he  has  a 
chance. 

My  advice  to  literary  aspirants  always  is  "Punch's"  to 
those  who  would  marry,  "  Don't."  And  I  say  it  because  I 
know  if  they  have  the  thing  in  them,  the  "don't"  won't 
prevent  its  coming  out.  So  I  feel  about  artists  both  here 
and  abroad.  I  should  think  an  artist  would  prefer  to  live 
in  Rome,  but  I  should  also  suppose  that  one  who  would 
succeed  there  would  also  succeed  here.  And  if  there  must 
be  a  fight  for  it,  why  not  fight  in  the  midst  of  friends? 
Perhaps  —  and  certainly  more 's  the  pity !  —  you  know 
it  is  pleasanter  to  be  poor  in  foreign  countries  than  at 
home. 

How  about  your  boy,  my  namesake?  Is  n't  he  to  be  an 
American,  and  ought  n't  he  to  be  learning  his  own  coun 
try?  I  feel  strongly  that  a  man  who  is  to  live  here  ought 
to  begin  as  a  boy. 

In  this  weather  it  seems  as  if  we  might  all  be  lazzaroni 
and  live  on  air  and  sunshine.  But  we  don't.  The  car 
penters  are  hard  at  work  building  me  a  house  (Papa,  pay 
master!)  close  by,  and  I  am  hard  at  work  coining  money 
to  keep  it  withal.  I  have  to  work  methodically  and  indus 
triously,  but  I  am  very  well  and  so  are  my  wife  and  boy, 
who  runs  about  and  begins  to  talk. 

I  wish  I  could  clear  up  the  perplexed  music  in  your  eyes 
as  I  see  them  in  the  photograph,  and  in  yourself  as  you 
write  it  in  the  letter.  We  send  our  dearest  loves  to  you 
and  yours. 


244    CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 

Mr.  Cranch  to  Mrs.  Brooks 

PARIS,  July  25,  1860. 

.  .  .  John  wrote  me  a  long  letter  in  June,  telling  me  of 
dear  sister  Lizzie's 1  death,  which  I  answered  immediately. 
Then  I  also  received  yours  and  John's  letter  of  last  winter 
telling  of  Rufus's  death.  And  received  your  letter  in 
which  you  speak  of  coming  over  to  us.  ...  It  will  be  a 
great  delight  and  comfort  to  have  you  among  us,  and  I 
have  no  doubt  that  it  is  the  very  best  thing  you  can  do. 
...  I  think  Mrs.  Kelson's  will  be  a  very  good  place  for 
you.  A  great  disadvantage  for  you  and  the  children  will 
be  that  you  won't  have  an  opportunity  there,  among  so 
many  Americans,  of  speaking  any  French.  But  you  will 
be  very  comfortable  there.  ...  As  for  your  taking  an 
apartment,  you  would  be  much  bothered,  especially  by 
the  cheating  propensities  of  your  cook  and  bonne.  .  .  .  We 
will  make  you  comfortable  somewhere  near  us.  Paris  is  a 
city  of  conveniences,  and  it  will  be  hard  if  we  don't  get 
you  suited.  .  .  .  Mrs.  Kelson  herself  is  a  charming  woman, 
and  an  old  friend  of  ours,  and  you  will  see  there  from  time 
to  time  many  people  you  would  like  to  see. 

My  dear  sister,  I  have  so  much  to  talk  about,  when  I 
begin  writing  to  you,  that  I  could  foam  all  over  the  paper, 
like  an  uncorked  beer-bottle.  But  I  must  be  brief  this 
time,  and  write  again.  I  am  quite  busy  now  copying  a 
picture  in  the  Luxembourg  Gallery;  a  large  view  in 
Venice,  by  a  distinguished  colorist  here,  named  Ziem. 
Copying  is  new  to  me,  and  I  like  the  novelty,  but  should 
get  very  weary  of  it,  if  I  were  obliged  to  keep  it  up.  ... 

But  what  good  times  we  shall  have  when  you  come!  — 

what  long  talks  about  everybody  and  everything!   You 

will  come  and  sit  in  my  studio  and  I  will  read  my  poems 

and  show  you  my  pictures,  and  the  children  will  know 

1  Mrs.  Rufus  Dawes. 


TEN  YEARS  IN  EUROPE  245 

their  cousins,  and  teach  them  to  talk  French  —  though  I 
dare  say  Nannie  speaks  it,  as  you  say.  We  will  show  you 
the  French  side  of  life,  and  all  the  lions  and  the  monkeys, 
and  we  will  have  some  merry  times,  and  forget  the  sor 
rows  of  the  past.1 

To  his  wife 

VENICE,  September  13,  1860. 

...  It  is  now  my  twelfth  day  here.  I  am  afraid  I  have 
accomplished  very  little  which  will  show,  though  I  have 
been  most  of  the  time  busy.  I  am  gathering  material, 
however,  for  pictures.  I  have  done  very  little  in  the  way 
of  architecture,  but  have  been  studying  boats  and  sails, 
—  have  painted  and  drawn  mostly  from  my  window, 
which  looks  right  out  on  the  shipping  and  the  bay,  and 
all  the  sea  life  that  is  going  on.  It  reminds  me  a  good  deal 
of  Naples,  only  far  more  picturesque  and  full  of  color.  .  .  . 

We  have  had  some  rainy  and  cloudy  and  windy  days, 
when  the  brilliant  city  of  the  sea  looked  all  grey  and 
dingy.  Bad  weather  here  is  a  thing  not  set  down  in  the 
guidebooks,  nor  suggested  by  Byron,  Rogers,  George 
Sand,  or  any  of  the  poets  who  have  written  about  Venice. 
Neither  do  Titian,  Paul  Veronese,  Turner,  Canalletti,  nor 
Ziem  give  you  any  suspicion  of  it  in  their  pictures.  Sun 
shine  and  moonlight,  and  still  water,  and  gliding  gondolas 
we  naturally  associate  with  this  wonderful  old  city.  But 
to  wake  up  at  night,  and  hear  the  wind  howling  through 
the  crevices  of  the  house,  and  the  Adriatic  moaning  out- 

1  Among  the  many  pleasant  memories  of  our  Parisian  life  are  the 
Sunday  visits  the  children  and  their  father  paid  to  the  Jardin  d'Ac- 
climatation  and  the  Jardin  des  Plantes,  or  the  hours  spent  in  the  un 
frequented  parts  of  the  Bois,  where  Mr.  Cranch  painted  trees  or 
landscapes.  Those  were  happy  times,  with  balmy  days  in  the  open, 
George  making  a  collection  of  butterflies,  the  little  sister  and  brother 
playing  about  with  all  Nature  for  a  playground. 


246    CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 

side  the  Lido,  —  as  if  sorrowing  for  her  long  line  of  dead 
husbands  —  the  Doges,  —  and  to  get  up  in  the  morning 
and  look  out  and  see  all  the  gorgeous  color  washed  out  of 
the  pictures  seen  from  your  windows  —  this  does  not 
seem  to  belong  to  Venice.  Fortunately  the  bad  weather 
has  not  lasted  long.  To-day  has  been  lovely.  I  painted 
fishing-boats  with  gay  sails  all  the  morning,  and  about 
four  o'clock  took  a  gondola,  —  only  the  second  time  I 
have  indulged  in  a  gondola,  except  on  arriving,  —  and 
glided  through  the  narrow  canals,  and  saw  two  churches 
which  can  only  be  got  at  by  water  —  San  Paolo  e  Gio 
vanni,  and  the  Gesuite.  Tell  Clarke  I  took  notice  of  the 
statue  of  Colleoni,  which  is  very  fine.  There  are  beauti 
ful  pictures  also  in  the  church,  among  them  Titian's  chef 
d'ceuvre,  "The  Martyrdom  of  St.  Peter."  They  have  a 
disagreeable  custom  here  of  keeping  the  churches  shut, 
and  you  are  pestered  by  a  guide,  when  you  get  in,  who 
must  be  feed,  of  course.  But  then  they  are  content  with 
very  small  fees.  To-night  there  was  music  on  the  piazza 
from  the  Austrian  band.  They  play  every  other  night. 
There  are  about  fifty  performers,  all  wind  instruments, 
who  form  a  circle  around  a  large  chandelier  of  gas,  in  the 
centre  of  the  Square.  The  programme  is  remarkably  fine. 
They  play  about  an  hour.  The  Italians,  for  the  most 
part,  keep  away  from  the  band,  contenting  themselves 
with  a  distant  hearing,  as  they  sit  under  the  arcades  of 
the  cafes,  at  their  ices  and  coffee.  There  are  two  streams 
of  promenades,  however,  of  mixed  nations,  moving  up 
and  down  the  Square,  all  the  evening,  the  Austrian  mili 
tary  element  predominating.  I  am  getting  somewhat 
used  to  the  short  white  coats  (almost  every  other  man  is 
in  a  white  coat) ;  at  first  I  could  not  bear  to  go  near  them. 
The  people  are,  I  suspect,  much  gayer  than  usual,  —  no 
doubt  in  consequence  of  the  successes  of  Garibaldi.  I 


TEN  YEARS  IN  EUROPE  247 

have  been  surprised  at  the  Venetian  "Journal"  publish 
ing  such  full  accounts  of  Garibaldi's  movements  —  and 
of  the  political  matters  in  general.  Nothing  is  concealed. 
Of  the  two  government  papers  I  see,  the  "Journal"  of 
Trieste  is  more  Austrian  than  that  of  Venice.  I  see  the 
"Galignani"  almost  every  day,  and  sometimes  the  "In 
dependence  Beige."  I  have  talked  somewhat  with  the 
Consul  about  political  affairs.  He  seems  to  think  they 
are  very  unsettled  here,  and  that  the  Revolution  must 
come  sooner  or  later.  If  this  last  news  is  true  that  Victor 
Emmanuel  has  accepted  the  protectorate  of  the  Marches, 
and  will  send  Piedmontese  troops  there,  the  great  ball 
will  roll  on  faster  than  ever. 

Think  of  Ziem  while  I  am  painting?  Of  course  I  do.  I 
see  Ziem  everywhere.  I  understand  things  in  his  pictures, 
I  did  not  before.  I  saw  one  of  his  twilights  the  other  eve 
ning,  from  the  public  garden,  the  only  place,  by  the  way, 
where  there  are  trees,  which  it  is  refreshing  to  see,  after  so 
much  water.  And  I  have  in  petto  a  picture  from  that 
place.  But  Ziem  takes  poet's  liberties.  It  is  his  own 
mind's-eye  Venice  that  he  paints. 

John  S.  Dwight  to  Mr.  Cranch 

BERLIN,  November  22,  1860. 

_Do  not  imagine  me  insensible  to  the  kindness  of  your 
letter  because  I  am  so  slow  in  answering  it.  The  truth  is 
I  am  slow  about  all  writing  now.  Your  sympathetic 
words  of  real,  generous  friendship  were  most  sweet  to  me 
in  these  sad  times,  and  did  me  good.  There  is  at  least  this 
blessing  coupled  with  a  great  sorrow,  that  it  shows  us  we 
have  friends.  How  I  wish  I  could  be  near  you  indeed ! 
Berlin  is  a  cold,  dull  place,  with  all  its  music  and  its 
gayety.  But  I  manage  to  live  here,  and  am  beginning, 
after  too  long  experience  of  a  kind  of  Wandering  Jew's 


248    CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 

life,  to  get  settled  after  a  fashion.  For  some  days  the 
quiet  brought  with  it  a  very  painful,  sick-at-heart  reac 
tion,  or  rather  relapse  and  exhaustion  after  so  much  and 
so  long  excitement  —  offsetting,  as  I  had  done  for  the  last 
month,  the  agony  within,  by  constant  travelling  and 
novelty  without.  It  was  perhaps  well  for  me  that  I  was 
put  to  this  resource.  And  it  was  well,  too,  that  I  had  to 
face  my  grief  in  its  full  force  alone.  It  is  so  that  one 
enters  quickest  into  the  full  meaning  of  it  and  finds  cer 
tain  mysterious  consolations,  comforters,  that  otherwise 
are  apt  to  hide  themselves.  But  ah!  will  this  certain  ex 
altation,  which  comes  with  the  direct  facing  of  a  great 
grief,  be  able  to  sustain  itself  at  such  height?  I  fear  the 
worst  is  yet  to  come,  and,  in  gradually  subsiding  once 
more,  as  one  must,  into  the  everyday  routine  of  life,  that 
then  I  shall  feel  more  and  more  bitterly,  at  every  point,  in 
every  little  wonted  nook  and  habit  of  the  consciousness, 
how  home  exists  no  longer  for  me,  and  how  all  is  changed! 
The  worst  is,  so  far,  that  I  cannot  work  —  for  in  work  is 
my  only  solid  hope  of  cheerfulness;  in  living  earnestly  for 
high  ends  to  which  I  know  her  spirit  calls  me,  singing  to 
me  still.  Let  me  tell  you  of  a  reminiscence  of  my  wife 
which  William  Henry  Channing  writes  me  in  a  beautiful 
and  inspiring  letter  from  Liverpool.  He  writes,  as  he  says, 
"from  a  house  where  he  is  sitting  alone  with  his  dead!" 
his  little  Lisa  —  the  family  sent  out  of  town  for  health. 
He  says :  — 

"  During  one  of  the  sad  midnight  vigils,  as  I  was 
watching  by  the  pillow  of  my  little  girl,  there  suddenly 
sounded  on  my  inward  ear  that  magnificent  Norse  hymn 
(you  know  it,  Cranch,  Haydn's  Canzonet  'Spirit  Song') 
which  your  Mary  used  to  chant  with  such  inspiration: 
'My  spirit  wanders  free,  my  spirit  wanders  free,  and  waits, 
and  waits  for  thee,'  etc.  I  had,  it  is  true,  been  thinking 


TEN  YEARS  IN  EUROPE  249 

much  of  you;  still,  it  seemed  like  the  actual  presence  of 
your  risen  friend,  and  never  have  I  heard  a  sound,  out 
wardly,  that  soared  so  strongly  in  clear  ether  as  that 
thrilling  intonation  'Free!9  It  came  over  me  like  an  ex 
perience  by  sympathy  of  the  fluent,  all-visiting,  swiftly 
transient,  bright  glancing  life  of  the  spirits,  which  was 
full  of  joy.  And  I  cannot  doubt  that,  whencesoever 
originated,  this  midnight  thought  perfectly  expresses  the 
fact  as  to  your  Mary.  It  must  be  a  source  of  exhaust- 
less  satisfaction,  that  the  personal  relation  between  you 
sprang  out  of,  and  was  pervaded  with,  like  the  sap  of  its 
life,  —  the  deepest  unity  in  two  immortal  elements :  — 
the  art  of  music,  and  the  ideal  of  social  harmony.  Meet 
ing  once  at  this  centre  of  natural  and  spiritual  beauty, 
you  have  an  assurance  of  meeting  there  again  and  again, 
in  ever  deepening,  ever  purifying  affinity.  Music  and  so 
cial  harmony  must  be  two  of  the  choicest,  freshest,  most 
exalting  joys  of  the  angels.  And  well  may  you  respond 
to  the  grand  tone  'Free';  your  friend  is  'waiting.'  How 
her  generous,  grand,  aspiring  nature  is  expanding  itself, 
in  congenial  society!  How  fondly  and  faithfully  she 
watches  over  the  loved,  left  behind!" 

I  have  made  some  very  pleasant  friends  in  Berlin,  or 
rather,  Thayer  l  had  already  made  them  for  me,  and  I 
have  heard  incredible  quantities  of  the  best  sort  of  music. 
Mme.  Clara  Schumann  lives  here  and  has  made  me  free 
to  her  rehearsals.  I  have  heard  several  regular  symphony 
concerts  by  the  best  orchestra;  symphonies  of  Beethoven, 
Mozart,  Mendelssohn,  and  Haydn;  and  even  the  Ninth 
Choral  Symphony,  in  a  coffee  salon  (!),  people  sitting 
round  some  hundred  of  little  tables  with  coffee,  beer, 

1  Alexander  W.  Thayer.  He  was  collecting  information  for  a  book 
on  Beethoven. 


250    CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 

cigars,  and  knitting  ( !) ,  all  as  still  as  mice!  As  opera  I  have 
already  heard  here  "Don  Juan,"  Gluck's  "Orpheus," 
with  Joanna  Wagner,  "Fidelio,"  and  "A  Midsummer 
Night's  Dream"  capitally  acted,  so  as  to  preserve  the 
poetry  of  the  fairies  and  the  pure  fun  of  Bottom,  with 
Mendelssohn's  music.  Also  Beethoven's  "  Ruins  of 
Athens"  music,  which  is  every  note  inspired.  In  Dresden, 
too,  I  heard  the  "  Zauberflote"  and  Weber's  "  Preciosa." 
.  .  .  Making  the  friendship  of  Joachim  (ask  Thayer  about 
him)  in  Dresden,  was  a  rich  comfort  to  me.  He  is  a  true 
man,  as  well  as  great  artist.  In  Leipzig  too  I  had  a  rich 
week  musically,  and  I  mean  to  go  there  again  now  and 
then,  and  spend  a  week  or  two. 

I  knew  you  would  like  Thayer,  and  I  am  glad,  both  for 
his  sake  and  for  yours,  that  you  see  so  much  of  him.  But 
do  pray  add  your  counsel  to  that  of  all  his  friends  here, 
and  tell  him  to  write  his  book  upon  his  present  knowledge 
and  not  wait  until  he  shall  know  everything.  I  fear  he  al 
ready  knows  too  much.  It  never  was  intended  in  God's 
plan  that  any  man  should  be  too  closely  known.  I  doubt 
not  God  himself  uses  the  divine  faculty  of  not  seeing, 
and  of  forgetting,  as  regards  a  thousand  and  one  small 
particulars. 

I  was  very  glad  that  you  realized  your  wish  of  going  to 
Venice;  and  I  hope  some  day  to  see  some  of  the  fruits  of 
that.  .  .  . 

Thanks  to  the  Swiss  tramp,  it  gave  me  a  fresh  stock  of 
physical  strength;  else  I  know  not  how  I  could  have 
borne  the  blow  that  has  come  upon  me  so  well  as  I  have. 
Thayer  will  tell  you  how  I  saw  the  Emperor  and  Empress 
at  St.  Martin  in  Savoy;  and  in  what  clouds  of  impenetra 
ble  fog  I  groped  my  way  over  into  the  Vale  of  Chamouni, 
and  how  the  persistent  rain  drove  me,  after  one  glorious 
revelation  of  Mount  Blanc,  to  abandon  my  North  of 


TEN  YEARS  IN  EUROPE  251 

Italy  and  Stelvio  plan,  and  beat  a  retreat  from  Martigny, 
across  lake  Leman,  to  Munich,  and  exchange  nature  for 
art.  Ah!  just  then  it  was,  as  I  resolved  on  that  retreat, 
amid  that  outward  gloom,  that  the  soul  and  sunshine  of 
my  home  was  passing  away  from  earth  forever! 

Don't  let  me  forget  to  thank  you  for  your  trouble  about 
the  trunk.  It  came  duly  the  day  after  your  letter;  and 
after  infinite  fuss  and  patience  at  the  custom  house  I  got 
it  off  to  the  hotel.  These  stupid,  self-important,  cere 
monious,  fussy  little  Prussian  officials!  It  cost  me  about 
a  whole  day's  waiting  and  running  about.  After  the  trunk 
was  found  and  I  had  paid  the  freight,  the  question  was  to 
find  the  Herr  Inspector,  and  have  it  examined.  There 
I  stood,  key  in  hand;  but  A  sent  me  to  B,  and  B  to  C, 
some  fifteen  in  all;  each  took  my  papers  and  scribbled 
something  on  them,  but  nobody  did  anything.  It  was 
hours  before  I  could  get  the  trunk  actually  examined. 
Well  it  was  a  good  study  of  Prussian  life  and  Zoll-verein ! 

To  John  S.  Dwight 

PARIS,  July  4,  1862. 

.  .  .  Seriously,  I  do  cry  peccavi,  and  desire  to  confess 
myself  a  sinner,  that  I  have  not  written  to  you,  nor  ac 
knowledged  the  receipt  of  the  number  of  your  Journal, 
wherein  you  describe,  so  wonderfully  well,  your  rollings 
and  tossings,  and  fears  and  hopes  in  the  great  monster 
steamship,  and  your  happy  escape  from  destruction. 
Since  your  restoration  to  the  good  dry  land  of  Boston, 
,and  to  all  familiar  sights,  of  persons  and  things,  I  desire 
to  know  how  you  have  fared,  and  how  it  is  with  you 
spiritually. 

I  have  often  thought  of  you,  dear  friend,  going  back  to 
your  lonely  house,  and  even  now  as  I  think  of  you,  in  the 
dim  cold  light  of  that  great  calamity  which  came  upon 


252    CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 

you,  and  which  you  must  have  felt  with  tenfold  poign 
ancy  in  your  return  home.  .  .  .  Believe  me,  that  though 
I  have  said  little  about  your  bereavement,  there  is  no  one 
who  has  more  sympathized  with  you. 

As  for  myself,  I  have  little  to  say,  worth  writing.  I  jog 
on  at  about  the  usual  pace,  and  with  the  usual  ups  and 
downs.  The  year  has  been  rather  smoother  on  the  whole, 
pecuniarily,  than  usual,  and  I  have  had  several  sales  and 
orders.  But  for  some  time,  the  good  luck  has  ceased,  and 
I  fear,  for  a  few  years  to  come,  the  tide  will  be  against  us. 
At  the  rate  things  are  going  on  in  America,  strict  economy 
must  be  the  programme  for  some  time,  for  rich  as  well  as 
poor.  And  "  inter  arma  silent  artes! "  When  the  end  is  to 
be,  of  this  greatest  revolution  and  struggle  the  world  has 
yet  seen,  is  beyond  my  powers  of  conjecture.  One  thing, 
however,  I  do  feel  sure  of  —  and  that  is  worth  years 
of  bloody  battle,  and  exhaustive  expense  —  that  the 
country  is  beginning  to  breathe  a  wholesomer  air  than 
ever  it  did.  If  we  can  get  rid  of  slavery  and  its  corruption, 
and  brutalizing  influences,  North  and  South,  it  is  worth 
all  the  terrible  crises  we  are  passing  through.  It  is  the 
valley  of  the  shadow  of  death,  and  there  are  goblins  and 
devils  enough  in  our  path,  but  there  is  light,  and  health, 
and  peace  beyond.  .  .  . 

To  George  William  Curtis 

PARIS,  January  9,  1863. 

We  have  heard  with  deep  sorrow  and  sympathy  of  the 
loss  of  your  brother  l  at  the  fated  battle  of  Fredericks- 
burg.  But  he  has  fallen  in  defense  of  the  greatest  cause  for 
which,  in  this  or  almost  any  age,  men  have  given  their 
treasures,  their  enthusiasm,  their  labors,  and  their  lives. 
When  I  see  young  men  of  the  North  going  to  battle  in  this 
1  Lieutenant-Colonel  Joseph  Bridgham  Curtis. 


TEN  YEARS  IN  EUROPE  253 

way,  full  of  such  patriotism,  fresh  and  unbroken  in  spite 
of  the  incompetency  of  our  leaders,  leaving  friends,  com 
forts,  prospects  in  life,  I  tell  you  I  feel  often  like  a  miser 
able  and  inefficient  cumberer  of  the  earth.  Over  here  we 
watch  with  such  eagerness  every  arrival  of  telegrams,  and 
all  we  can  do  for  you  is  to  pray  with  might  and  main  for 
our  country,  now  alas  in  such  peril.  We  live  ourselves  in 
dim  conjecture,  when,  where,  and  how,  all  these  bloody 
battles  are  to  end.  If  we  can  judge  by  the  tone  of  the 
papers,  this  last  reverse  is  by  far  the  severest  of  all  we 
have  experienced.  At  least,  when  coming  on  top  of  other 
failures  it  is  the  more  crushing.  The  people  have  not 
seemed  till  now  aware  of  the  tremendous  hill  of  difficulty 
before  them.  We  have  been  the  great  optimist  of  nations. 
To  subdue  the  rebellion  we  had,  was  but  a  question  of 
time.  Is  it  so  now !  I  fear  that  no  progress  will  be  made, 
till  we  are  of  one  mind  and  one  heart,  and  one  irrepres 
sible  wrill  for  the  destruction  of  this  slave  power,  as  the 
South  is  for  its  maintenance.  I  have  long  believed  there 
was  no  hope  for  the  Nation  but  in  striking  directly  at  the 
heart  and  brain  and  spinal  marrow  of  the  rebellion.  If 
we  are  to  compromise  and  settle  the  union  on  the  old 
slavery  basis,  I  for  one,  should  like  to  turn  my  back 
forever  on  my  country.  But  I  know  that  you  and  I  are  of 
one  mind  on  this  question. 

...  I  am  going  to-day  to  Notre  Dame  to  hear,  if  I  can 
wedge  my  way  through  the  crowd,  Mozart's  "Requiem," 
performed  on  the  occasion  of  the  burial  of  the  Archbishop. 
But  to  me  it  will  be  a  Requiem  over  our  brave  young  dead 
on  the  battle-field  three  thousand  miles  away. 


CHAPTER  XII 

NEW   YORK 

THESE  paragraphs  are  from  the  Autobiography :  — 

The  last  two  or  three  years  of  our  stay  in  Paris  were  a 
time  of  great  anxiety  about  the  War  of  Secession.  We 
had  now  remained  abroad  much  longer  than  we  had  in 
tended.  Our  children  had  been  at  very  good  French 
schools,  but  we  felt  that  it  was  time  we  should  return,  for 
many  reasons. 

In  July,  1863,  we  all  left  Paris  for  Havre  and  South 
ampton  where  we  took  the  steamer  Hansa  for  New  York. 
We  had  a  passage  of  about  ten  days.  It  was  a  gloomy 
time  for  our  country.  We  had  been  a  good  while  without 
any  definite  news  of  the  war.  So  that  as  the  pilot  came 
aboard  before  arriving  there  was  great  excitement.  The 
passengers  crowded  around  the  newspapers,  one  head 
over  another,  eager  for  the  news,  and  it  came,  all  in  a 
heap.  Vicksburg  —  the  opening  of  the  Mississippi  — 
Gettysburg  -r-  and  on  the  top  of  all  the  New  York  Riots 
of  about  a  week  before. 

All  was  quiet  when  we  landed.  It  was  on  Sunday,  and 
of  course  we  were  kept  back  by  the  Custom-House  rules. 
My  son  George  and  I  went  ashore  in  a  boat,  and  walked 
up  Broadway  as  far  as  the  printing-offices,  when  whom 
should  we  meet  but  Horace  Greeley  going  to  his  office  in 
the  Tribune  Building.  After  greeting  me,  he  took  us  up 
into  his  office  and  showed  us  the  guns,  hand  grenades, 
etc.,  which  had  been  in  readiness  all  over  the  building  in 
case  of  attack  by  the  mob. 


NEW  YORK  255 

Mr.  Cranch  to  George  William  Curtis 

5    NEW  YORK,  January  15,  1866.    - 

Suffer  the  poor  "belligerent"  to  repose  his  weary  limbs 
in  your  "  Easy  Chair,"  if  you  like.  He  is  fagged  out  and 
weary,  having  asked  admittance  at  one  or  two  editorial 
doors,  but  was  refused.  ...  I  shall  be  thankful  to  have 
my  say  anywhere,  for  my  tongue  has  long  been  silenced. 
The  "Easy  Chair"  has  a  warm,  cosey,  generous  fireside 
sound  to  my  ears,  and  I  shall  be  in  excellent  company. 

You  draw  it  mild  as  to  the  Myopians.  I  also  respect 
their  spirit,  when  it  is  not  a  cantankerous  spirit,  and  their 
purpose,  whenever  it  rises  in  the  least  above  microscopic 
imitation  of  the  dry  statistics  of  nature.  But  wherein  do 
their  spirit  and  purpose  differ  from,  or  exceed  in  excel 
lence,  a  large  number  of  conscientious  and  laborious  and 
enthusiastic  painters  of  another  school?  When  we  speak 
of  pictures,  we  suppose  they  are  to  be  criticised  as  works 
of  art.  But  what  principles  of  art  do  these  new  men  not 
violate  in  producing  their  ugly  crudities?  I  cannot  regard 
them,  therefore,  as  artists.  I  except,  of  course,  men  like 
Griswold,  and  one  other  man  whom  the  Pre-Raphaelites 
praise,  but  whose  name  I  forget.  Griswold  is  one  of  the 
very  best  of  them,  if,  indeed,  he  can  be  said  to  belong  to 
them,  but  he  is  one  whom  the  sapient  "Tribune"  Oracle 
thinks  to  be  among  the  least  in  his  Kingdom  of  Heaven. 
I  think  Griswold's  last  picture  in  the  Academy  was  one  of 
the  very  best  landscapes  on  the  walls.  But  because  it  had 
artistic  qualities  which  an  Academician  might  admire 
possibly,  the  Pre-Raphaelites  dismiss  it  with  a  patroniz 
ing  modicum  of  faintest  praise. 

But  I  had  at  least  no  thought  of  dipping  again  into 
these  matters  when  I  took  up  my  pen. 

Times  are  hard  with  us  this  winter.   Greenbacks  melt 


256    CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 

like  snowflakes  on  hot  griddles.  New  York  is  so  terribly 
expensive.  .  .  . 

James  Russell  Lowell  to  Mr.  Cranch 

ELMWOOD,  21st  May,  1866. 

I  trust  you  have  not  forgotten  that  you  are  to  spend 
some  time  with  me  at  the  end  of  this  month  and  begin 
ning  of  June.  And  perhaps  you  remember  that  I  said  I 
wished  you  to  come  in  the  last  week  of  May  so  as  to  dine 
with  our  Club  on  the  last  Saturday  of  the  month.  Now  I 
believe  all  external  and  visible  housecleaning  is  over  for 
this  spring,  except  in  the  cellar,  and  with  that  you  are  not 
concerned,  except  as  to  a  particular  corner  thereof  where 
some  babes  of  Bacchus  are  cruelly  prisoned  by  the  giant 
Glass. 

When  you  come,  bring  all  your  initial  letters  with  you, 
for  I  think  I  can  kill  two  birds  with  one  block,  by  getting 
you  something  amusing  to  do  in  odd  moments  and  by 
improving  our  breed  of  blockheads  (to  chapters,  I  mean, 
the  other  is  beyond  all  bettering).  You  see  I  have  a 
"frugal  mind"  like  Mrs.  Gilpin.  Hereof  fail  not!  I  have 
been  looking  forward  to  your  visit  ever  since  I  was  in 
New  York.  Remember  that  next  Saturday  is  the  last  of 
the  month,  and  that  I  have  a  week  of  holidays  beginning 
then.  Don't  forget  the  blocks.  It  would  be  a  pleasant 
way  of  adding  to  your  income  without  trouble  to  your 
self,  and  a  great  gain  to  our  books.  The  faculty  of  inven 
tion  which  you  have  is  the  rarest  of  any.  Have  you  for 
gotten  that  I  "ordered"  a  picture  of  you  to  be  enlarged 
from  King  Frost  the  first?  I  want  it  as  much  as  ever.  I 
think  your  drawing  one  of  the  few  original  things  I  have 
seen.  You  must  do  more  of  the  same  kind,  my  dear  boy, 
and  make  fame  and  fortune.  Get  rid  of  your  whoreson 
modesty,  which  I  love,  nevertheless. 


NEW  YORK  257 

ELMWOOD,  Friday.  (July,  1866.) 

As  nobody  on  the  face  of  this  planet  has  the  most  faint 
conception  of  how  the  ancient  Greeks  pronounced  their 
language,  and  as  the  custom  in  singing  is  likely  to  be  as 
near  right  as  any  other,  I  should  let  it  stand.  I  do  not 
know  whether  I  altogether  like  the  impersonation  of 
Afternoon  —  but  the  rhyme  at  worst  is  only  an  imperfect 
one,  and  your  putting  "  horizon"  first  has  already  put  the 
reader's  ear  on  its  guard,  or  on  the  right  scent,  as  Lord 
Castlereagh  would  have  said.  Elaison  and  Ellzon  are  to 
me  the  only  conceivable  ways  of  pronouncing  it.  You  do 
not  tell  me  Mr.  Howells's  objection.  As  for  your  other 
question,  I  take  it  that  "tribe,"  like  all  other  nouns  of 
multitude,  may  be  used  either  in  the  singular  or  plural 
according  to  sense.  For  example  —  "Among  the  N.  A. 
Indians  the  tribe  is  represented  by  the  chief."  And,  "  this 
tribe  was  exterminated."  But  on  the  other  hand,  "Big 
Thunder's  tribe  meanwhile  scattered  in  every  direction 
and  buried  themselves."  That  last  is  from  Thucydides, 
and  I  should  pluralize  it  whenever  the  image  presented 
to  the  eye  required  it. 

.  .  .  We  have  been  having  our  usual  yearly  row  of 
Commencement.  It  gets  rather  tiresome  at  last.  But 
folks  are  giving  to  the  College  with  both  hands. 

George  William  Curtis  to  Mr.  Cranch 

ALBANY,  September  10,  1867. 

.  .  .  Send  me  a  line  telling  me  how  things  stand,  and 
how  George  bears  this  Autumn  weather. 

Give  my  heartiest  love  to  the  incomparable  Lizzie.  I 
admire  her  more  than  ever,  and  you  ought  to  thank 
Jupiter  and  all  his  moons  —  which  I  don't  believe  you 
can  do  with  that  opera  glass  —  that  you  have  so  steady 
and  strong  a  will  in  her  to  annihilate  difficulty. 


258    CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE   CRANCH 

Almost  at  the  end  of  the  Civil  War,  George 
Cranch  procured  through  Wilkinson  James  a  com 
mission  as  second  lieutenant  in  the  Fifty-fourth 
Massachusetts  Regiment.  He  was  but  eighteen,  but 
looked  much  older.  He  was  in  the  South  five  months 
and  was  promoted  to  a  first  lieutenancy.  His  work 
was  mostly  receiving  complaints,  settling  them, 
drilling  his  men,  hoping  all  the  time  to  be  ordered  to 
the  front.  Fortunately  for  the  peace  of  his  family, 
there  was  no  more  fighting.  He  afterward  entered 
the  Scientific  School  of  Columbia  College,  taking 
high  rank  in  his  studies.  He  undoubtedly  worked 
too  hard,  and  a  severe  cold  which  he  contracted  in 
the  spring  of  1867  developed  into  a  lung  fever  with 
complications.  In  the  early  summer  he  was  removed 
to  the  country,  where  in  September  the  end  came 
peacefully. 

George  William  Curtis  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Cranch 

ALBANY,  September  21,  1867. 

I  have  only  this  moment  seen  the  sad  news  in  the  paper, 
which  could  not  surprise  me,  but  which  draws  me  very 
near  to  you  in  your  great  sorrow.  I  know  that  you  ex 
pected  nothing  else  and  that  long  and  harrowing  suffering 
had  reconciled  you  somewhat  to  his  release,  but  when  I 
think  of  my  own  boy  and  remember  that  you  have  lost 
yours,  my  heart  aches,  and  I  pray  God  to  console  you. 

I  wish  I  had  known  in  time  to  be  with  you  at  the  last, 
—  and  sometime  when  you  can,  let  me  hear  of  the  end 
and  of  all  his  sickness  and  suffering. 

What  happy  days  they  were  for  us  all  twenty  years  ago 
when  he  was  born!  How  well  I  remember  the  fair-faced, 
placid  baby,  the  little  King  of  Rome!  I  thought  of  it  the 
other  day  when  I  sat  by  him  and  he  told  me  in  his  tranquil 


NEW  YORK  259 

way  that  he  did  not  expect  to  live,  and  I  saw  the  same 
light  in  his  clear,  beautiful  eyes  that  I  remembered  in  the 
child.  It  was  the  pure  light  from  which  he  came,  and  to 
which  he  has  gone.  It  was  the  light  of  heaven  that  lies 
all  around  us,  yes,  around  you,  too,  for,  if  much  is  gone, 
how  much  also  is  left!  Dearer,  better,  lovelier  children 
than  remain  to  you,  do  not  live.  Give  all  my  love  and 
sympathy  to  them,  and  make  them  feel  always  that  I  am 
theirs. 

ALBANY,  September  23,  1867. 
MY  DEAR  PEARSE:  — 

Your  most  interesting  note  came  to  me  this  morning 
and  I  thank  you  heartily  for  it.  It  is  pleasant  to  know 
that  the  poor  boy  did  not  suffer  greatly  and  did  truly 
sink  to  sleep;  I  am  glad  too  that  Frothingham  was  near 
you  and  that  all  was  done  as  you  would  have  wished. 
These  things  give  a  peacefulness  to  the  memory  of  sor 
row,  which  is  itself  a  consolation. 

Do  give  my  sincerest  love  and  sympathy  to  Lizzie,  who 
I  hope  will  recover  before  long  from  the  physical  pros 
tration  which  is  inevitable. 

.  .  .  Good-bye,  dear  Pearse.  I  suppose  we  shall  go 
home  from  Ashfield  by  the  twelfth  of  October.  ...  I 
mean  to  stay  there  till  January;  I  am  tired  of  being  away. 

A  cottage  called  "Mon  Bijou"  was  built  for  our 
accommodation  at  Fishkill  by  Grandfather  De 
Windt,  and  we  fell  so  in  love  with  the  place  that  we 
spent  a  winter  there,  my  father  coming  from  his 
New  York  studio,  for  Saturdays  and  Sundays.  It 
was  in  the  early  summer  of  1868  that  Mr.  Curtis 
visited  us  there,  a  visit  which  was  an  idyl,  a  dream 
of  pleasure  in  the  prose  of  our  everyday  life. 

I  cannot  imagine  a  more  genial  and  sympathetic 


260    CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE   CRANCH 

guest.  His  friends  knew  well  that  gentle  urbanity  of 
his,  which,  contrasted  with  his  strength  of  will,  and 
nobility  of  purpose,  made  his  unbending  so  sweet 
and  beautiful.  I  am  inclined  to  think  he  was  the 
most  just  man,  as  well  as  tender,  I  ever  knew  —  if 
being  just  means  the  ability  to  put  one's  self  into 
other  people's  places. 

The  visit  must  have  lasted  a  day  or  two,  for  I 
remember  gathering  roses  to  put  at  his  plate  in  the 
morning.  There  was  a  climbing  Baltimore  Belle 
with  a  tea  centre,  that  had  opened,  seemingly  ex 
pressly  for  the  Howadji,  as  my  mother  sometimes 
called  him. 

What  a  delightful  breakfast  it  was,  and  what 
interesting  scraps  of  talk  we  had  that  June  morning! 
There  was  music,  too,  to  lull  the  senses  and  carry  the 
listeners  back  to  enchanted  isles  of  sentiment  and 
suggestive  thought. 

Out  of  the  haze  of  memory  come  to  me  the  tones 
of  Mr.  Curtis's  voice,  clear,  ringing,  which  carried 
far,  with  deep  chest-tones  as  in  his  addresses.  He 
naturally  articulated  well  and  used  unconsciously 
the  best  English,  and  as  one  accustomed  to  speak 
with  authority  as  well  as  dramatic  effect.  His  smile 
and  humor  were  irresistible.  And  I  never  heard  him 
say  a  mean  thing  about  any  one. 

I  was  especially  interested  in  what  he  said  about 
keeping  a  journal  when  a  young  man.  What  he  said 
was  something  like  this :  — 

"If  I  had  kept  a  journal  in  the  days  when  I  first 
went  abroad,  not  of  the  little  happenings,  but  of  the 
impressions  of  the  places  and  of  the  people  I  have 
met,  and  of  the  books  I  have  read,  it  would  be  inval 
uable  to  me  now.  I  advise  every  young  person  to 


NEW  YORK  L261 

keep  a  journal  for  impressions  of  the  events  which 
affect  him,  and  not  of  the  daily  routine  of  life." 

He  told  us  how  to  read  the  morning  newspaper. 
First,  to  glance  over  the  headings,  read  carefully  the 
condensed  news,  then  the  reports  of  the  proceedings 
of  the  House;  next  the  foreign  news  and  an  editorial 
or  two,  —  and  presto !  you  have  the  kernel  of  the  nut 
in  a  short  time,  leaving  the  shell  empty. 

The  drives  taken  with  our  neighbors',  the  Ver- 
plancks',  horses  were  through  aisles  of  woods,  on 
country  roads,  looking  down  the  river,  to  majestic 
old  Storm  King,  little  Dutch  Sugar  Loaf,  and 
Crow's  Nest,  —  these  mountains  shutting  out  the 
great  noisy  world  without,  while  within,  it  was 
Utopia. 

After  Mr.  Curtis  returned  to  his  work,  there  ap 
peared  in  the  next  month's  "Harper's  Easy  Chair," 
an  account  of  the  music  of  our  voices,  blending  with 
the  mountain  breezes.  It  was  done  in  that  graceful, 
suggestive  vein,  which  had  all  the  charm  of  his  own 
personality. 

George  William  Curtis  to  Mr.  Cranch 

ASHFIELD,  MASSACHUSETTS, 
August  11, 1868. 

No,  my  dear  old  Boy,  Planchette  is  a  liar  and  the 
daughter  of  the  father  of  lies.  I  never  knew  her  to  tell  the 
truth,  and  I  never  expect  her  to.  We  had  her  at  the  is 
land,  and  she  scrawled  and  scrambled,  but  whatever  she 
did,  she  lied.  She  is  a  tiresome  imposter,  and  the  Lady 
Elizabeth  will  soon  discover  it. 

I  am  glad  you  went  to  Boston  and  saw  Lowell,  for  there 
is  a  certain  air  in  their  regions  —  I  do  not  mean  the  east 
wind  —  of  which  we  get  no  whiff  in  our  diggings  of  New 


262    CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE   CRANCH 

York.  I  shall  miss  seeing  several  of  the  Cambridge  men 
up  here,  where  they  come  to  see  Norton. 

We  are  very  comfortable  in  his  house  and  we  should  be 
mighty  glad  to  see  you.  It  is  a  splendid  region  for  walking 
over  the  hills  and  far  away,  and  for  remembering  the  dear 
old  friends  and  the  dear  old  days. 

Good-bye,  dear  old  Arcadian,  for  that  you  must  al 
ways  be.  My  love  of  loves  to  Lizzie,  and  Nora,  and  the 
youngers. 

James  Russell  Lowell  to  Mr.  Cranch 

ELMWOOD,  September  28,  1868. 

Why  should  n't  Ho  wells  write  you  a  pleasant  letter 
without  my  being  to  the  fore?  Are  n't  you  going  to  cele 
brate  your  silver  wedding  on  the  "10th  prox."  (as  the 
newspapers  say),  and  isn't  Howells  a  young  man  who 
knows  the  respect  due  to  such  old  fogies  as  you  and  me? 
My  dear  boy,  we  have  arrived  at  a  period  of  life  when 
our  years  (if  not  our  poetry)  command  respectful  atten 
tion,  and  we  ought  to  make  the  most  of  it.  I  liked  the 
verses  you  sent  me,  though  I  should  have  liked  to  make  a 
criticism  or  two  before  you  printed  'em  —  but  why,  after 
sending  them  to  the  "Atlantic,"  are  they  to  appear  in 
"Putnam"?  Are  you  torn  in  pieces,  like  Orpheus,  by 
contending  editors?  Or  are  you  still  so  young  that  you 
can't  wait  to  hear  from  one  before  you  print  in  the  other? 

By  the  way,  Lee  and  Shepard  are  going  to  print  a  new 
edition  of  "Kobboltozo."  Did  you  know  it?  And  are 
you  still  interested  in  the  copyright?  They  wrote  me  to 
ask  if  your  middle  name  was  Pearse,  and  I  took  the 
opportunity  to  advise  them  to  make  haste  and  secure 
your  story  of  "Burlibones,"  or  they  might  lose  it,  the 
publishers  were  so  crazy  after  it.  I  shall  sell  it  yet,  you 
may  depend,  and  I  shall  act  on  the  Sibyllian  precedent. 


NEW  YORK  263 

The  longer  I  keep  it,  the  more  I  mean  you  shall  get  for  it. 
It  is  good,  and  that 's  the  main  thing,  whether  printed  or 
not. 

I  am  going  to  print  a  volume  of  poems  this  fall,  and  I 
shall  send  you  a  copy  among  the  first,  emboldened  by 
what  you  say  of  the  "Biglow  Papers,"  which  was  very 
pleasant  to  me.  If  you  don't  like  some  of  'em,  I  shall  be 
crusty. 

Should  n't  I  like  to  be  at  Fishkill  on  the  "10th  prox." 
and  to  meet  George  Curtis  and  to  have  a  good  time  gen 
erally?  But  I  can't,  because  I  am  not  a  gentleman,  but 
merely  a  professor,  and  the  10th  October  comes  of  a 
Saturday  and  on  Monday  I  have  to  be  here  to  deliver  a 
lecture.  You  need  n't  have  been  so  sensitive  about  my 
bringing  any  silver,  for  I  am  poor  in  that  respect  as  an 
apostle,  and  am  at  my  wits'  end  to  pay  my  taxes,  which, 
more  by  token,  must  be  paid  precisely  on  the  day  of  your 
jollification.  But  had  it  not  been  for  my  lecture,  I  would 
have  been  with  you,  if  I  had  had  to  borrow  the  money  for 
the  journey.  My  mouth  waters  to  think  of  it.  Let  me 
hope  that  when  you  celebrate  your  golden  wedding  I 
shall  be  luckier. 

Meanwhile,  my  dear  old  boy,  let  me  wish  you  all  kinds 
of  a  good  time  on  the  10th,  and  drink  my  health  as  if  I 
were  there,  as  I  shall  not  fail  to  do  for  you  when  the  day 
comes.  I  will  pronounce  it  a  festival  and  spend  a  bottle 
of  champagne  on  it,  if  it  be  my  last.  And,  though  I  can't 
come  to  you,  why  can't  you,  who  are  a  gentleman  and 
lord  of  your  own  time,  come  to  us  this  winter  for  a  day 
or  two?  Let  us  consider  it  settled.  I  shall  complete  my 
half -century  on  the  22d  February,  '69,  and  why  should  not 
you  help  me? 


264    CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE   CRANCH 

ELMWOOD,  December  18,  1868. 

How  could  you  think  that  I  had  forgotten  you  —  I, 
who  would  rather  have  (if  I  can  say  so  with  this  abomin 
able  pen)  one  old  friend  with  a  silver-mine  in  his  hair, 
than  all  the  new  ones  that  were  ever  turned  out?  You 
don't  even  deserve  to  be  forgotten,  if  such  a  notion  ever 
entered  your  absurd  old  head.  No,  I  had  you  down  on 
my  list  of  persons  to  whom  my  new  volume  was  to  be  sent, 
but  I  had  of  course  forgotten  your  number  on  Broadway, 
and  yet  was  pretty  sure  you  would  n't  be  at  Fishkill.  I 
did  n't  wish  the  book  to  become  the  prey  of  some  Johnson 
Postmaster  (and  just  consider  the  feelings  of  an  author 
whose  book  was  derelict  because  not  called  for) ,  nor  to  go 
wandering  up  and  down  Broadway  in  an  express  wagon, 
as  disconsolate  as  a  Peri  we  used  to  read  about  in  the  days 
when  Plaucus  was  Consul.  Now  all  you  have  to  do  is  just 
to  send  me  word  whether  the  volume  will  reach  you 
safely,  if  sent  by  express  to  No.  1267  Broadway,  or 
whether  I  shall  have  it  forwarded  to  T.  &  F.'s  New  York 
house,  to  be  called  for  by  C.  P.  C.  And  when  you  get  it, 
I  am  of  so  singular  a  turn  of  mind  that  I  don't  care  a 
d  -  -  (d  stands  for  penny)  whether  you  find  anything 
in  it  to  like  or  not,  provided  you  will  continue  to  like 
J.  R.  L.  Nay,  on  those  terms,  you  may  even  dislike  it,  if 
you  will.  I  would  rather  have  a  pennyweight  of  honest 
friendship  than  a  pound  of  fame,  or  —  what  is  about  as 
solid  —  flattery. 

Now  I  am  going  to  put  your  friendship  to  the  test.  I 
am  to  be  fifty  years  old,  and  to  celebrate  my  golden 
wedding  with  life,  on  the  22d  February  of  next  year. 
G.  Washington  was  forthputting  enough  to  be  born  on 
that  day  (pereant  qui  ante  nos!)  but  he  did  not  take  all  the 
shine  off  it.  If  he  was  the  father,  I  am  the  son  of  my  coun 
try  —  a  relationship  as  close  as  his'n.  Well,  now  to  the  test 


NEW  YORK  265 

of  friendship.  I  was  never  so  far  ahead  of  the  Sheriff  of 
Middlesex  County  (the  very  one  for  a  poet  to  be  born  in, 
who  must  have  lots  of  mother  in  him,  like  vinegar),  as  I 
am  now.  Therefore  I  wish  to  make  myself  a  present  of  a 
visit  from  you  about  that  time,  and  in  short  will  you 
come  if  I  will  stump  the  rusty?  Say  yes,  or  I  will  cross 
you  out  of  my  will  in  which  I  divide  the  unsold  copies  of 
my  works  among  my  more  patient  friends. 

My  old  clock  in  the  entry  has  just  given  that  hiccup 
with  which  tall  fellows  of  their  hands  like  him  are  wont 
to  prelude  the  hours  —  and  the  hour  is  midnight.  My  fire 
and  my  pipe  are  both  low.  I  must  say  good-night.  I  have 
had  great  difficulty  in  saying  what  I  wished  with  this  pen, 
which  has  served  me  I  know  not  how  long.  But  I  have 
stood  by  it,  and  that  should  convince  you  (if  you  needed 
convincing,  as  I  am  sure  you  did  n't)  that  I  don't  give  up 
an  old  friend  even  when  he  has  lost  his  point.  But  that 
is  something  you  can  never  do  for  me,  and  I  shall  ex 
pect  you  on  the  22d  of  February,  1869,  G.  W.  to  the  con 
trary  notwithstanding.  You  shall  meet  Rowse  and  John 
Holmes  and  a  few  other  old  boys,  and  shall  have  a  warm 
welcome  from  Mrs.  Lowell  (who  thinks  you  handsome  — 
that  way  madness  lies!)  and  Mabel  and  me. 

George  William  Curtis  to  Mr.  Cranch 

NORTH  SHORE,  STATEN  ISLAND, 
January  16,  1870. 

I  am  not  surprised  that  your  mind  has  turned  to 
lecturing,  and  you  may  be  sure  that  I  will  do  all  I  possibly 
can;  but  you  know  that  it  is  a  work  in  which  no  man 
can  be  helped  —  except  to  a  hearing.  If  an  expected 
speaker  fails,  the  Committee  do  not  accept  a  substitute, 
but  choose  him,  —  and  notoriety  is  the  ground  of  choice. 
But  if  a  speaker  gets  a  chance  and  pleases  —  it  is  easy 


266    CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 

enough  to  go  on.  Committees  are  rather  wary  of  the  rec 
ommendations  of  speakers  given  to  other  speakers,  as 
they  have  been  abused,  by  the  good  nature  of  the  craft. 
But  everybody  can  get  a  chance  somehow.  Why  should 
n't  you  speak  in  the  little  course  at  Fishkill,  where  I  was 
this  last  week,  staying  at  Eustatia  and  having  a  delight 
ful  visit.  Of  course  you  would  be  willing  to  take  a  small 
fee  in  beginning.  Getting  the  chance  leads  to  getting  the 
money,  and  therefore  you  can  afford  to  take  the  chance 
cheaply.  Then  there  is  the  Sunday  afternoon  Horticul 
tural  Hall  course  in  Boston,  where  all  the  liberals  speak 
and  of  which  Frothingham  will  tell  you.  It  would  intro 
duce  you  to  that  most  desirable  Lyceum  neighborhood, 
and  if  you  would  like  to  see  if  there  is  a  door  open  I  will 
write  to  the  chief  manager. 

Your  subject  is  capital.  The  difficulty  that  I  always 
encounter  is  to  remember  the  difference  between  an  ora 
tion  and  an  essay.  I  am  so  in  the  habit  of  writing  to  be 
read,  that  I  forget  how  entirely  different  a  thing  writ 
ten  to  speak  is,  and  my  lecture  in  the  course  of  deliv 
ery  is  transformed  from  the  cabinet  picture  that  leaves 
my  study,  into  a  fresco.  A  lecture  is  twenty  times  better 
the  twentieth  time  of  its  delivery.  .  .  .  But  you  have 
been  a  speaker  in  other  days  and  you  know  these  things. 


August  9,  1870. 

When  I  was  in  Paris  a  friend  of  mine,  a  French  artist, 
made  a  very  clever  caricature.  The  king's  prime  minister 
in  the  likeness  of  a  monkey,  a  knife  in  his  hand  and  a 

1  My  father  was  boarding  with  his  family  at  Lexington,  Massa 
chusetts,  quite  too  near  the  railroad  station  for  his  sensitive  ears.  He 
ludicrously  makes  an  amusing  tale  of  the  annoyances  which  kept  him, 
no  doubt,  from  sound  sleep  a  part  of  the  warm  nights  spent  there.  In 
one  of  his  letters  to  a  friend  he  calls  it  the  "Devil's  Kitchen,"  and 
here  "  Gridironville." 


NEW  YORK  267 

cuisinier's  cap  on  his  head,  meets  a  flock  of  ducks  and 
addresses  them  thus:  "My  dear  ducks!  The  king,  my 
master,  desires  me  to  ask  you  in  what  sauce  you  would 
prefer  to  be  cooked."  The  poor  ducks  reply,  "But  we 
don't  wish  to  be  cooked  at  all!"  —  to  which  the  prime 
minister  rejoins,  "Mes  chers  Canards,  vous  sortez  de  la 
question  I " 

In  this  broiling  and  seething  weather,  the  thermometer 
playing  at  unheard-of  heights,  and  everything  out  of 
doors  baking  and  frying  and  browning  and  gradually 
turning  to  cinder,  I  often  imagine  myself  one  of  these 
poor  ducks,  dreaming  of  visionary  rivers  and  ponds  and 
distant  phantom  lakes  in  a  sandy  desert,  and  the  great 
clerk  of  the  weather  threatening  me  in  common  with  all 
human  creatures  in  these  parts,  with  sardonic  monkey 
grin  and  gleaming  kitchen  knife,  and  asking  the  perpetual 
question,  "  In  what  sauce  would  you  prefer  being  cooked?" 
Then  I  fancy  the  whole  out-door  landscape  converted  into 
a  great  kitchen.  Everything  fries  and  sizzles.  The 
summer  sounds  are  all  culinary.  The  branches  of  the  trees 
are  ribs  of  gridirons,  and  the  locusts,  which  are  more 
lively  now  than  all  the  other  insects,  except  the  tickling 
and  stinging  and  importunate  house  flies, —  the  locusts, 
which  seem  to  be  singing,  are  only  bubbling  and  simmer 
ing  and  sizzling  deliciously  in  fat.  They  really  seem  to 
take  intense  satisfaction  in  being  cooked.  Some  modern 
John  the  Baptist  might  enjoy  ihefrittata  which  seems  to 
be  preparing  from  their  unctuous  little  bodies,  far  better 
than  the  old-fashioned  Oriental  mode  of  devouring  them 
raw.  As  for  the  poor  birds,  they  are  all  roasted  and  sent 
to  market.  All  I  can  hear  of  them  is  one  melancholy 
little  phcebe  bird,  who  seems  to  be  in  the  last  agonies  of 
culinary  martyrdom. 

The  frogs,  too,  are  all  sacrificed,  baked  brown  on  the 


268    CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 

clayey  bottom  of  the  dried-up  ponds.  The  blessed  sun  is 
only  a  mighty  kitchen  fire,  and  the  earth  is  but  a  huge 
pumpkin  turning  on  a  spit  beneath  his  blaze.  The  upper 
crust  is  very  well  done.  Great  cracks  and  seams  are  visi 
ble  in  the  soil.  The  winds  and  breezes  are  only  the 
breath  of  mighty  bellowses;  adding  fuel  to  the  flames.  In 
what  sauce  shall  we  be  cooked?  Sometimes  it  seems  as 
if  the  tyrannous  prime  minister  of  the  weather  allows  a 
little  choice.  For  he  now  and  then  sends  us  a  close  steam 
bath  of  a  summer  morning,  when  our  roast  or  broil  or  fry 
changes  to  a  boiling  state.  Then  we  simmer  and  stew  as 
quietly  as  the  voracious  flies  allow.  For  it  is  on  such 
mornings  these  pests  are  most  lively  and  virulent.  You 
may  escape  the  heat  a  little,  but  there  is  no  escape  from 
the  flies.  If  you  are  drowsy  in  the  afternoons  and  would 
indulge  in  a  nap,  they  become  aware  of  your  intentions 
and  redouble  their  attacks  upon  every  portion  of  your 
epidermis  that  may  be  exposed.  There  is  no  killing  them 
with  heat.  Frost  is  their  only  enemy. 

I  happen  to  live  near  a  railroad  station  and  a  junction 
and  a  vast  amount  of  cooking  seems  to  go  on  there,  and  at 
most  unseasonable  hours.  For  sometimes  at  midnight 
there  are  four  or  five  huge  locomotives  that  meet  to 
gether  and  pass  an  hour  in  a  sort  of  nocturnal  and 
mysterious  picnic.  Nobody  could  object  to  this  if  they 
did  it  quietly,  but  they  don't.  For  miles  around,  they  de 
clare  their  shrieking  and  sputtering  sentiments.  I  look 
out  of  my  window  down  the  hill,  and  there  the  black 
monsters  are  all  squatting  like  so  many  gigantic  cooking 
stoves  on  wheels,  and  after  half  an  hour  spent  in  puffing 
backwards  and  forwards,  and  hissing  and  yelling,  with 
occasional  spasms  in  which  they  all  appear  to  be  laughing 
a  sort  of  demon  laugh,  or  else  tumbling  off  the  track  into 
the  river,  they  all  commence  in  a  somewhat  milder  strain, 


NEW  YORK  269 

and  spend  the  rest  of  their  picnic  in  frying  fish,  —  and 
from  the  fumes  now  and  then  wafted  to  my  olfactories, 
I  should  think  there  were  omelets  of  very  bad  eggs,  — 
after  which,  they  start  off  with  frightful  and  unearthly 
noises,  each  his  own  way,  and  blessed  silence  reigns. 

But  the  secret  reason  of  these  midnight  steam  orgies 
I  can't  discover.  With  a  little  imagination  they  might  be 
as  good  as  Norse  mythologies.  Thor  and  Jotunheim  and 
Asgard  and  all  that.  But,  alas,  —  they  are  too  palpable 
to  hearing  as  to  smell  for  the  imagination  to  have  any 
hand  in  it.  I  defy  even  Messrs.  Fish  and  Vanderbilt, 
those  conscientious  interpreters  of  all  railroad  affairs,  to 
explain  what  these  iron  demons  can  be  about  at  these 
witching  hours  of  the  midsummer  nights. 

In  1871,  Mr.  Cranch  took  a  cottage  at  Staten 
Island,  belonging  to  Mr.  Hoyt,  so  as  to  be  near  his 
sister,  Mrs.  Brooks,  and  his  friend,  George  William 
Curtis.  He  writes  from  there  to  his  elder  daughter :  — 

HOITY-TOITY  COTTAGE,  STATEN  ISLAND, 
July  29,  1871. 

.  .  .  You  must  be  thinking  of  packing  your  trunk  and 
leave  your  pleasures  and  palaces,  where  though  you  may 
roam  be  it  ever  so  humble  and  without  closets  and  lock-up 
places,  and  surrounded  by  a  rude  Hibernian  population, 
there's  no  place  like  Home!  The  piano  threatens  to  go 
into  mourning  with  black  crepe  around  its  legs  and  is  get 
ting  sulky  and  out  of  tune;  the  black  spiders  are  spinning 
their  webs  over  your  music,  and  no  sentimental  listeners 
stand  at  the  gate  in  the  moonlight  to  hear  your  dulcet 
notes,  and  the  Irish  boys  have  all  the  wind  taken  out  of 
their  lungs,  and  all  their  jovial  and  refreshing  hilarity  has 
evaporated  now  that  they  grieve  to  hear  no  more  "As  it 
fell  upon  a  Day"  and  the  other  duets  which  they  are 


270     CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 

wont  to  appreciate  with  those  gentle  and  sympathetic 
demonstrations  of  joy  peculiar  to  the  tumultuous  and 
excitable  temperaments  of  the  exiles  of  Erin. 

George  William  Curtis  to  Mr.  Cranch 

ASHFIELD,  MASSACHUSETTS, 
October  2,  1870. 

We  are  coming  home  this  week  and  I  hope  to  see  you 
before  long,  but  I  want  to  say  how  beautiful  your  poem 
in  the  "Atlantic"  seems  to  me.  It  is  as  sunny  and  mellow 
and  grape-rich  as  one  of  these  soft  October  days  and  above 
all,  it  is  unspeakably  true. 

I  had  the  most  striking  corroboration  of  that  in  a  letter 
which  I  received  just  as  I  had  read  your  poem.  It  is 
from  a  man  who  makes  money  rapidly.  Fancy  turning 
from  your  skylight  to  read  this:  "I  feel  as  if  I  should  stop 
trying  to  make  money,  and  I  seriously  think  of  going  out 
of  business  at  the  end  of  the  year.  One  has  only  one  life, 
and  when  one  has  such  friends  as  I  have,  one  ought  to  be 
able  to  see  them  now  and  then.  No  money  compensates." 

Is  n't  that  pleasant  to  read  under  the  light  from  the 
sky? 

.  .  .  Give  my  love  to  the  dear  Lizzie  and  Nora  and 
Carrie.  Did  you  think  sometimes  in  the  September  days 
of  our  journey  through  the  Tuscan  vineyards? 

James  Russell  Lowell  to  Mr.  Cranch 

ELMWOOD,  May  12, 1871. 

I  have  sold  enough  land  to  add  about  three  thousand 
dollars  to  an  income  which  was  nothing  in  particular 
before,  except  as  I  could  earn  it.  But  I  am  not  going 
abroad  yet  a  while.  I  hope  to  manage  that  in  a  year  from 
now  at  soonest.  However,  a  great  load  is  taken  off  my 
shoulders,  for  since  Atlas,  nobody  ever  carried  so  weary  a 


NEW  YORK  271 

burthen  of  real  estate  as  I,  and  he,  if  he  had  been  taxed 
for  his  load  as  I  have  been,  would  have  thrown  it  down 
long  ago.  Pray  Heaven  Boutwell  and  his  allies  don't 
get  at  him  in  our  day  —  at  least  not  before  I  have  enjoyed 
my  new-fangled  ease  a  year  or  two. 

Your  letter  anticipated  one  which  I  was  about  to  write 
you.  The  time  of  the  singing  of  birds  has  come,  and  I 
have  been  meaning  for  some  time  to  ask  you,  my  dear  old 
singer,  to  come  on  and  meet  them  in  my  garden  before  the 
blossoms  go.  I  depend  on  you  to  help  make  spring  every 
year,  and  we  will  have  a  jolly  good  time,  for  I  am  younger 
than  I  have  been  these  ten  years,  and  have  tapped  a  new 
cask  of  good  spirits.  I  won't  even  be  depressed  by  your 
manuscripts  and  you  may  be  thankful  that  I  have  been 
too  busy  lecturing  to  have  any  of  my  own  to  revenge 
myself  with.  So  come  as  soon  as  you  like  and  bring  your 
winsome  Maro.1  Fair  hangs  the  apple  from  the  rock,  and 
we  will  try  and  bring  it  down  together.  As  a  commercial 
venture,  I  am  doubtful  about  your  enterprise,  though  for 
the  literary  part  of  it  I  would  back  you  against  the  field. 
At  any  rate,  you  may  reckon  safely  on  any  service  that  I 
can  render.  A  visit  to  Elmwood  will  do  you  good,  and 
there  are  the  Oaks  and  the  Waterfall,  and  my  apple  trees 
will  be  blooming  next  week.  Therefore,  stand  not  on  the 
order  of  your  coming,  but  come  at  once.  Though  your 
doleful  tone  would  lead  me  to  think  you  had  never  a 
shirt  to  your  back,  borrow  a  clean  one  as  soon  as  you 
get  this  and  start  for  the  boat  before  the  owner  reclaims 
it  in  order  to  send  his  other  to  the  wash.  And  be  sure  and 

1  Mr.  Cranch  began  his  translation  of  the  ^Eneid  in  1869.  At  first  I 
it  was  an  amusement,  but  he  became  deeply  interested  in  it,  and 
translated  book  after  book.  In  1870  he  went  over  his  work  with  three 
clever  young  friends,  Titus  Munson  Coan,  N.  B.  Emerson,  and  Frank 
T.  Brownell.  Later  he  read  it  at  Elmwood,  where  Mr.  Lowell  would 
criticise  and  comment  on  it. 


272     CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE   CRANCH 

bring  me  a  copy  of  Sarony's  larger  photograph  of  C.  P.  C., 
which  I  want  that  I  may  have  it  framed  and  hung  in  my 
dining-room  with  other  friends  to  make  me  merry  at 
meals.  If  you  don't,  I  won't  let  you  have  a  drop  of  any 
thing  weaker  than  well  water  while  you  are  here. 

I  am  delighted  to  hear  of  Page's  deserved  promotion, 
God  bless  him!  It  recalls  the  days  of  my  youth,  as 
Ossian,  I  think,  remarked  on  some  similar  occasion.  Of 
course,  gentlemen  in  easy  circumstances  can't  be  ex 
pected  to  take  more  than  a  distant  and  depressing  inter 
est  in  artists  and  that  kind  of  thing,  but  I  shall  endeavor 
to  show  all  proper  sympathy  that  shall  not  be  misinter 
preted  into  an  encouragement  of  undue  familiarity.  I 
think  I  may  safely  ask  you  to  give  him  my  love,  for  it 
costs  nothing  and  cannot,  I  should  suppose,  be  twisted 
into  an  order  for  a  picture. 

Now  remember:  on  getting  this  you  are  to  start  east 
ward  forthwith,  and  expect  to  be  jolly  and  help  waste  a 
little  time,  which  will  be  excellent  fun,  for  on  such  a  day 
as  this,  it  is  worth  a  thousand  dollars  a  breath.  Wealth 
does  n't  protect  one  from  headaches,  I  find.  I  have  had 
one  these  three  days. 

Rev.  William  Greenleaf  Eliot  to  Mr.  Cranch 

ST.  Louis,  January  8,  1873. 

I  came  home  from  college  work  to-day  soon  after  one, 
having  had  two  lectures  and  continued  close  occupation 
for  four  hours,  so  that  I  was  tired  all  over;  but  on  the 
table  was  your  book  by  express,  and  before  I  sat  down  I 
opened  it,  admired  the  whole  getting  up,  and  began  to 
read;  and  read  and  read  until  legs  rebelled;  then  kept  on 
until  nearly  two  books  were  completed.  Several  special 
places  also,  and  a  description  of  Rumor,  I  read  carefully, 
equally  delighted  with  the  poetry  and  the  literal  rendering. 


NEW  YORK  273 

Then  the  Latin  Virgil  I  went  over,  page  after  page,  my 
two  boys  following  me.  On  the  whole,  it  seems  to  me  the 
most  successful  translation  of  poetry  into  poetry  I  know 
anything  of.  You  remember  Bentley's  criticism  of  Pope's 
Iliad?  4< It  is  a  very  pretty  poem,  Mr.  Pope,  but  you  must 
not  call  it  Homer";  but  yours  is  Virgil  and  as  exact 
almost  as  if  you  were  making  a  school  translation  for 
students,  while  the  verse  is  pure  English. 

If  you  come  to  a  second  edition,  I  should  like  to  sug 
gest  a  word,  here  and  there,  but  perhaps  not  to  its  im 
provement.  Undoubtedly  it  will  work  its  way  and  that 
quickly. 

Mr.  Cranch  to  Mrs.  Scott 

WEST  NEW  BRIGHTON,  NEW  YORK, 

May  22,  1873. 

I  think  you  are  right  when  you  say  it  is  about  time  I 
wrote  to  you.  And  though  I  have  no  special  news  to  tell 
you,  I  know  you  will  be  glad  to  have  a  letter  from  me, 
though  it  be  a  short  one  or  a  dull  one.  There  is  a  season 
of  life  —  and  you  are  in  that  sunny  zone  —  when  letters 
flow  out  of  one  like  trickling  streams  down  the  mountain 
side.  I  think  I  have  got  into  the  Arctic  Circle.  With  old 
gentlemen  of  my  years,  the  streams  flow  with  a  sort  of 
slow,  glacier  movement,  save  at  rare  intervals,  when 
thawed  out  by  some  unwonted  solar  rays. 

We  are  having  rather  dull  times  here.  The  spring  is 
a  cold  one,  but  the  trees  are  growing  very  green,  and  the 
blossoms  are  out  in  abundance.  We  are  trying  to  let  the 
house  for  the  summer,  but  I  don't  think  there  is  much 
chance,  for  there  are  about  a  dozen  other  houses  to  let  in 
the  neighborhood. 

By  Mrs.  Shaw's  kindness,  I  have  heard  Rubinstein  two 
or  three  times,  and  never  can  cease  from  my  delight,  as 


274    CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE   CRANCH 

well  as  my  amazement  at  his  wonderful  memory,  no 
less  than  his  absolute  perfection  of  execution.  To-night 
is  his  last  concert  in  America,  where  he  plays  nothing 
but  his  own  music.  I  heard  him  at  one  concert  play 
Bach,  Handel,  Scarlatti,  and  Haydn,  and  that  exquis 
ite  Fantasie  of  Mozart's  which  you  play  —  commencing 
with  those  grand,  deep,  changing  chords.  I  thought  of 
you  when  he  played  it,  and  so  did  George  Curtis,  who  sat 
near  me,  and  I  enjoyed  it  tenfold  for  its  associations,  and 
that  I  knew  every  note  of  it  almost  by  heart.  The  next 
concert  I  heard  him  in,  was  the  Chopin  recital.  It  was 
fine,  though  a  little  of  a  surfeit  of  Chopin,  and  I  thought 
he  took  several  pieces  too  fast;  and  others  thought  the 
same.  But  I  wish  you  could  have  heard  him  play  the 
Berceuse,  —  perhaps  you  did.  This  was  the  fourth  time 
I  heard  him. 

To  his  brother  Edward 

WEST  NEW  BRIGHTON,  STATEN  ISLAND, 

May  29,  1873. 

...  I  don't  forget  that  this  is  your  birthday,  and  that 
you  are  sixty-four  to-day.  Time  was  when  I  considered 
you  very  much  my  senior,  but  when  we  reach  the  sixties, 
why,  those  small  differences  of  age  are  almost  obliterated. 
Here  am  I,  sixty  years  old.  Somehow  sixty  seems  to  set 
the  stamp  of  old  age  upon  a  man. 

While  I  was  in  the  fifties  I  fought  against  the  Stamp 
Act.  I  was  rebellious,  like  our  forefathers  of  the  Revolu 
tion.  And  even  now,  except  now  and  then  when  age  will 
shake  his  finger  at  me  with  a  lugubrious  air,  I  can't  well 
believe  that  he  hath  "  clawed  me  in  his  clutch,"  for  I  am 
not  very  old  as  yet.  Still  in  my  ashes  live  their  wonted 
fires.  The  other  day  I  was  told  that  a  lady  whom  I  know, 
set  me  down  as  forty-five ! !  I  was  not  much  puffed  up  by 


NEW  YORK  275 

the  compliment,  and  laid  half  of  its  weight  to  a  want  of 
observation  on  her  part.  .  .  . 

We  are  all  well,  spite  of  the  hot  weather,  which  has 
sprung  upon  us  with  a  tiger  leap. 

Did  you  get  an  "  Independent"  I  sent  you?  I  write  for 
it  still.  The  "  Galaxy"  and  "  Atlantic"  for  June  contain 
verses  of  mine,  and  there  will  be  an  article  about  Fontaine- 
bleau  Forest  in  "Appleton's  Journal"  soon,  with  some 
illustrations  of  mine.  .  .  . 

To  George  William  Curtis 

STATEN  ISLAND,  September  27,  1873. 

My  wife  insists  upon  my  writing,  though  I  tell  her  I 
am  not  in  the  mood.  What  with  packing  books,  and 
pictures,  storing  away  in  closets  of  the  odds  and  ends  of 
things  left,  trying  to  smooth  down  the  various  bristling 
ends  of  other  things  that  can't  be  packed  away,  or  sat 
isfactorily  disposed  of,  seeing  to  this,  and  seeing  to  that, 
and  the  entire  brain  be-cobwebbediddled  and  set  on  eend, 
and  flying  all  abroad,  —  the  time  is  not  exactly  favorable 
to  writing,  particularly  as  I  have  so  much  to  say.1 

But  when  I  get  beyond  Jordan,  in  that  classic  land  to 
which  the  Fates  are  calling  me,  like  old  ^Eneas,  then  I 
hope  to  write  to  you.  I  am  sorry  on  many  accounts  to  leave  / 
Staten  Island,  especially  in  the  winter  while  you  are  here, 
but  hope  to  gain  by  going  to  Boston,  where  I  shall  try 
to  get  a  studio,  and  sell  some  pictures.  .  .  .  Glad  to  see 
you  Harpering  again. 

1  Mr.  Cranch  used  to  groan  beforehand  over  these  changes,  but  at 
the  time  was  cheerful,  and  packed  books,  china,  and  anything  re 
quiring  special  care,  beautifully. 


276    CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE   CRANCH 

George  William  Curtis  to  Mr.  Cranch 

ASHFIELD,  MASSACHUSETTS, 
October  2,  1873. 

MY   DEAR  AND   WICKED   BEDOUIN,  — 

How  could  you  do  so?  In  these  beautiful  days  I  have 
been  strolling  about  the  splendid  country  thinking  of  the 
happy  winter  when  I  should  not  lecture,  and  we  should 
come  in  upon  each  other  every  day.  For  a  month  I  have 
been  reproaching  myself  that  I  had  not  written  to  tell  you 
that  we  should  soon  appear,  and  now  comes  your  letter, 
and  I  want  to  cry. 

Well,  the  world  is  a  place  in  which  we  play  at  hide  and 
seek  with  our  friends.  I  thought  that  we  had  at  last  found 
each  other  —  but  it  turns  out  that  we  are  lost  instead.  I 
wonder  will  you  come  back  with  the  bluebirds?  Will  you 
stay  until  the  east  winds  of  June  start  you  in  your 
classic  shades? 

Will  you  ever  come  back  again? 

My  dear  old  friend,  if  you  knew  how  sorry  I  am,  you 
would  know  how  much  I  love  you  always. 

We  have  all  been  very  well  all  summer.  But  oh!  —  no 
matter!  I  hope  that  you  will  all  be  very  happy. 

Mr.  Cranch  to  George  William  Curtis 

CAMBRIDGE,  MASSACHUSETTS, 
October  8,  1873. 

It  is  too  true,  alas,  that  we  have  all  taken  wings  and 
flown  from  your  New  York.  Considering  all  things,  this 
seemed  to  be  best.  The  Island  had  many  attractions, 
though  you  were  away,  and  we  seemed  to  have  struck 
down  some  roots  which  it  was  hard  to  pull  up.  But  house 
keeping  was  expensive;  we  were  cut  off  from  the  city 
more  than  we  liked;  there  was  no  school  near  us  for 
Quincy;  and  no  chance  for  me  to  make  any  money  by 


NEW  YORK  277 

painting.  Though  boarding  here  is  not  cheap,  and  though 
it  costs  a  good  deal  to  get  a  tutor  for  Quincy,  yet  the 
change  is,  I  think,  good  for  him  and  for  us  all.  We  have 
a  few  friends  here  and  in  Boston,  and  I  certainly  can  do 
no  worse  in  my  profession  as  a  painter  here  than  there. 
And  for  whatever  literary  work  I  am  to  do,  this  may  be 
the  best  place  for  me. 

I  am  grieved  that  I  shall  not  see  you  as  I  expected,  for 
I  had  looked  forward  to  having  you  near  us  all  the  winter, 
and  must  bear  this  disappointment  as  I  can.  .  .  . 

We  have  seen  Henry  James,  and  Frank  Boott,  and 
their  households.  Shall  you  not  be  coming  this  way, 
ere  long?  .  .  . 


CHAPTER  XIII 

CAMBRIDGE 

THE  following  is  from  the  Autobiography:  — 

When  I  came  to  reside  in  Cambridge,  after  an  interval 
of  close  on  forty  years  since  I  had  seen  the  architectural 
shades  of  Harvard,  I  could  hardly  get  rid  of  the  feeling 
that  I  was  living  in  the  shadow  of  authority.  It  seemed 
as  if  some  invisible  professors  were  haunting  me,  and  as 
if  —  as  sometimes  in  my  dreams  —  I  might  be  called 
upon  at  any  moment,  to  explain  why  I  had  dodged  the 
recitations,  and  absented  myself  from  my  duties.  I  felt 
a  great  yawning  gap  in  my  knowledge  of  matters,  which 
even  the  Freshman  of  to-day  should  know.  I  was  an 
ignoramus  trespassing  on  the  domain  of  scholars.  In  my 
long  years  of  artist  life,  the  bottom  had  almost  dropped 
out  of  my  old  curriculum.  Any  schoolboy  might  stump 
me  on  the  textbooks.  One  day  a  venerable  ex-professor 
invited  me  to  dine.  I  felt  as  if  I  was  summoned  to  a 
recitation  unprepared,  and  I  had  the  effrontery  to  tell 
him  so.  I  was  relieved  to  hear  him  speak  slightingly  of 
one  study  at  least  which  was  thought  very  essential  forty 
years  ago.  But  now  it  is  amazing  to  think  how  much  of  the 
superficial  life  may  go  on  unfettered,  untrammeled,  in 
the  very  shadow  of  these  majesterial  buildings.  .  .  . 

The  social  life  of  Cambridge  is  one  of  the  great  charms 
of  the  place.  The  heavy  work  that  goes  on  in  the  college 
buildings  has  no  deadening  or  stiffening  effect  upon  the 
freedom  of  movement  in  general  society.  The  profes 
sional  centre  of  pure  white  light  is  fringed  about  with  the 
most  liberal  play  of  rainbow  colors.  There  are  clubs  for 


CAMBRIDGE  279 

light  reading,  and  charades  and  private  theatricals,  in 
which  even  college  professors  love  to  disport.  .  .  . 

There  is  one  element  left  out  in  the  composition  of 
Cambridge  society  —  that  is  —  the  artistic.  Cambridge 
knows  little,  and  cares  little,  about  art.  But  this  is  hardly 
to  be  expected,  for  some  years  to  come.  And  even  then, 
it  will  perhaps  not  be,  from  any  spontaneous  impulse 
in  all  that  belongs  to  a  liberal  education,  but  from  a  sense 
of  duty  and  an  ambition  to  be  "up  to  the  universe." 

Mr.  Cranch  to  0.  B.  Frothingham 

April  15,  1874. 

I  have  just  finished  your  Life  of  Theodore  Parker,  the 
book  presented  to  me  by  Mrs.  Parker,  and  therefore  all 
the  more  prized;  and  I  feel  impelled  to  express  to  you  my 
thanks  among  the  many  readers  you  cannot  fail  to  have. 
You  have  done  a  great  work.  I  can  understand  what 
laborious  hours  you  must  have  given  to  have  read  so 
thoroughly  and  condensed  and  arranged  so  admirably 
his  manuscript  letters  and  journals,  and  in  that  crooked 
chirography  of  his.  You  have  presented  the  whole  to  the 
public  with  a  completeness  of  portraiture  never,  I  sus 
pect,  given  before.  Your  biography  is  so  fresh,  too,  so  juicy 
and  fragrant;  combines  so  well  the  sympathetic  and  the 
critical;  eaten  so  into  the  very  marrow  of  the  man,  and 
shews  him  to  us  so  vividly  in  every  phase  of  his  career, 
and  every  side  of  his  mind  and  character,  and  so  floats 
him  on  the  delightful  current  of  your  own  thought  and 
style,  that  it  seems  to  me  a  fascinating  book.  Of  course 
I  don't  deny  that  a  great  part  of  its  charm  to  me  may  have 
been  in  reviving  my  recollections  of  Theodore  himself, 
though  I  saw  almost  nothing  of  him  after  those  West 
Roxbury  days.  But  your  book  fills  out  and  carries  on  the 
picture  of  him  to  my  mind,  and  gives  me  his  whole  life 


280     CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 

as  I  never  so  well  knew  it,  and  makes  me  realize  how 
great  he  was,  as  I  never  did  before.  .  .  . 

On  Sunday  last  what  do  you  suppose  I  did?  I  actually 
preached  at  the  Memorial  Hall.  My  subject  was  "The 
New  Faith/'  in  which  I  took  lots  of  ideas  from  my  New 
York  pastor.  I  believe  it  is  to  be  published  in  next  Satur 
day's  "  Commonwealth,"  though  I  had  n't  the  slightest 
idea  of  its  being  printed  when  I  wrote  it.  But  Mr.  Slack 
pounced  upon  me  with  an  editorial  pistol  and  I  did  n't 
know  what  to  do  but  stand  and  deliver,  though  I  had 
already  stood  and  delivered  it  to  the  whole  congregation. 
I  felt  that  I  wanted  to  have  once  the  satisfaction  of  saying 
in  the  Fraternity  pulpit  the  things  I  did  say,  and  I  had  a 
large  and  attentive  and  apparently  sympathetic  audience. 

Your  picture  of  Parker  makes  me  feel  ridiculously 
small,  and  thus  I  have  wasted  more  of  my  life  than  I  care 
about  remembering.  But  it 's  no  use  for  me  to  cry  about 
it.  I  am  growing  old,  but  perhaps  I  may  do  something 
yet  that  may  be  of  some  little  service  to  my  fellow  crea 
tures.  But  this  Theodore  Parker  haunts  me  and  rebukes 
my  conscience  terribly. 

To  Ralph  Waldo  Emerson 

CAMBRIDGE,  April  27,  1874. 

Many  years  ago  our  friend  Margaret  Fuller  suggested 
to  Mrs.  Cranch  that  I  should  send  you  one  of  my  sketches 
or  pictures,  and  my  wife  has  not  forgotten  to  remind  me 
often  of  it.  But  it  was  a  seconding  of  an  inclination  on 
my  part  to  do  so.  Will  you  accept  a  little  landscape  that 
I  painted  for  you  this  winter,  and  which  will  soon  reach 
you?  And  let  it  feebly  express  the  lifelong  debt  of  thanks 
I  owe  you  for  all  that  your  works  have  been  to  me,  ever 
since  your  little  book  "Nature"  first  came  to  me  like  a 
sunrise  of  truth  and  beauty. 


CAMBRIDGE  281 

I  take  the  liberty  also  of  sending  you  my  "  Libretto."  * 
And  I  am  now,  as  ever,  with  the  same  admiration  and 
affection, 

Truly  yours, 

C.  P.  CRANCH. 

Ralph  Waldo  Emerson  to  Mr.  Cranch 

CONCORD,  May  2,  1874. 

Your  double  gift  of  poem  and  picture  came  safely  to 
my  house  and  eyes  the  night  before  last.  The  picture, 
of  necessity,  drew  the  first  attention,  and  pleased  and 
pleases  all  beholders.  Mrs.  J.  M.  Forbes,  who  was  here, 
and  who  is  herself  an  incessant  painter,  praised  it  warmly, 
and  I,  who  am  necessarily  a  dull  critic  in  art,  was  glad  to 
be  justified  in  my  innocent  approbation.  My  son,  a  young 
doctor,  who  also  sketches,  and  my  daughter  who  draws, 
fully  consented.  The  book  with  its  dangerous  title  lies  on 
my  table,  and  waits  a  prosperous  hour.  I  have  always 
understood  that  you  are  the  victim  of  your  own  various 
gifts;  that  all  the  muses,  jealous  each  of  the  other,  haunt 
your  brain,  and  I  well  remember  your  speech  to  the 
frogs,  which  called  out  all  the  eloquence  of  the  inhabit 
ants  of  the  swamp,  in  what  we  call  Sleepy  Hollow  in 
Concord,  many  years  ago. 

We  are  now  in  the  hardships  of  the  worst  spring  that 
I  can  compare  with  my  remembrances :  but  I  trust  it  may 
yet  lead  us  to  as  fair  a  summer  as  its  sisters  have  done, 
and  I  trust  my  wife  may  be  well  enough,  and  you  good 
enough,  and  I  unloaded  enough  of  my  slow  task,  to 
secure  us  a  visit  from  you  on  the  best  day. 

Gratefully  yours, 

R.  W.  EMERSON. 
1  "Satan." 


282    CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 


Edward  Pope  Cranch  to  Mrs.  Brooks 

CINCINNATI,  May  27,  1874. 

Bertha  and  Emma  came  safe  and  well  yesterday,  in 
time  for  tea.  Having  not  slept  much  on  the  journey,  they 
accordingly  sat  up  all  night  talking;  and,  I  suppose, 
intended  to  talk  until  they  fell  over  in  their  chairs,  which 
I  believe  they  did  do  about  two  o'clock  in  the  morning. 
At  any  rate,  we  certainly  did  n't  have  a  very  early  break 
fast  to-day.  To-night  they  migrate  to  Pike's  Opera  House 
to  hear  the  second  grand  concert  of  the  Harmonic  Society, 
in  which  is  to  be  performed  Liszt's  "  Prometheus,"  which, 
being  a  Pagan  myth,  I  suppose  it  is  not  proper  to  call  it 
an  oratorio.  It  is  very  Liszt-y  indeed,  and  jerky.  The 
time  is  full  of  delicate  rests,  like  walking  on  tiptoe,  or 
rather  an  Oriental  egg  dance  —  full  of  peril  —  as  we 
make  narrow  escapes  sometimes;  going  it  with  a  sense 
of  vertigo,  and  wondering  how  we  got  there,  —  the  voices 
being  wafted  over  the  chasms  by  trombones  and  haut 
boys.  It  is  perfectly  awful.  When  the  society  sing  it  we 
look  like  a  collection  of  people  having  a  fit. 

I  don't  know  what  dear  Emma  will  think  of  the  old 
Harmonic  after  hearing  the  Boston  Handel  and  Haydn. 
I  think  we  are  pretty  good  on  a  regular  trot,  like  the 
"Messiah"  and  "Creation."  We  can  even  keep  along 
side  of  that  active  little  roadster,  Bach,  whose  legs  move 
under  him  so  quick.  But  if  you  want  to  see  fits  of  hysterics, 
you  ought  to  see  us  in  "Prometheus"!  It  is  a  perfect 
nightmare.  The  Detlingen  "Te  Deum"  and  the  "Sta- 
bat  Mater"  last  night  were  splendid.  We  had  a  great 
house,  and  everybody  was  delighted :  I  think  must  very 
nearly  have  paid  expenses.  That  Mrs.  Smith  has  such 
a  clear,  pure,  high  soprano,  and  sings  so  accurately!  Whit 
ney  is  a  magnificent  bass.  If  our  Emma  had  had  Mrs. 


CAMBRIDGE  283 

Barry's  part,  and  Varley  had  been  a  natural-born  tenor, 
which  he  is  n't,  and  the  Cincinnati  Orchestra  had  stopped 
scratching,  the  Quartettes  would  have  been  perfect. 

.  .  .  Well,  just  pray  for  me;  thermometer  90°,  standing 
in  cloth  coat,  on  the  top  tier  of  two  hundred  singers, 
whose  natural  temperature  excited  by  "Prometheus," 
and  blazing  gas,  and  audience  of  two  thousand  down 
there,  and  the  spiders  in  the  ceiling  hatching  their  eggs 
prematurely  on  account  of  the  heat,  singing  something  I 
don't  know,  jostled  by  nervous  elbows,  and  sympatheti 
cally  affected  by  a  general  fuss  —  and  this  at  sixty-five, 
when  I  ought  to  be  in  bed  snoring  a  natural  bass  to  my 
self  like  a  husband  and  father.  .  .  .  Annie  enjoys  it  though. 
She  is  one  of  the  altos.  I  go  for  her  sake. 

Mr.  Cranch  to  his  brother  Edward 

CAMBRIDGE,  July  4,  1874. 

The  other  day  Margie  sent  me  your  letter  to  her  of  May 
27,  or  rather  that  portion  of  it  describing  Lizst's  "Pro 
metheus,"  and  your  experiences  in  the  chorus.  I  would 
not  have  missed  that  letter  for  the  world.  So  good  is  it 
that  it  is  a  shame  it  should  be  buried  in  a  portfolio,  and 
I  have  just  committed  a  bold  deed  in  transcribing  some 
extracts  therefrom  which  I  have  sent  to  Dwight  for  his 
Musical  Journal.  They  are  too  good  to  be  lost.  I  wish 
I  could  move  your  ambition  and  vanity  a  little  on  this 
score.  You  ought  to  write  more  in  this  vein,  and  publish 
it.  You  ought  to  make  a  collection  of  your  letters  and 
other  writings,  or  let  some  friend  do  it,  and  immortalize 
yourself,  let  yourself  be  set  on  the  pedestal  and  in  the 
niche  that  belongs  to  you,  for  there  are  few  who  have 
your  gift.  I  have  extracted  into  my  manuscript  book 
several  pages  of  your  letters,  as  master-pieces.  O  that 
you  could  be  persuaded  to  write  more  and  publish.  You 


284    CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE   CRANCH 

don't  know  your  own  powers.  Long,  long  ago  you  ought 
to  have  chosen  literature  for  your  field,  or  else  that  in 
which  Nast  is  making  a  fame  and  fortune.  But  it  is  n't 
too  late  to  do  something.  I  don't  see  any  falling-off  in 
your  genius.  You  have  the  spirit  of  youth,  and  gifts  such 
as  yours  should  not  be  buried  in  napkins.  I  wish  you 
would  send  me  something  for  my  own  delight.  I  will 
promise  not  to  publish,  if  you  say  so.  I  feel  as  if  I  were 
losing  so  much  of  you,  in  these  long,  long  years  of  dis 
tance  between  us.  Let  Bertha  or  Emma  or  Annie  hunt 
up  and  copy  now  and  then.  There  must  be  treasures 
somewhere.  Margie  lent  me  some  of  your  letters  to  your 
wife  and  daughter  when  at  Milan,  and  I  have  rich  ex 
tracts  from  them. 

This  is  Independence  Day,  and  the  bells  are  ringing  like 
mad;  there  never  was  such  a  place  for  bells  as  Cambridge. 
It  is  like  Florence  or  Rome.  This  morning  before  sunrise 
they  began  it;  —  this  is  the  noonday  peal,  and  this  after 
noon  and  at  sunset  I  suppose  there  will  be  more  of  it, 
with  chimes  to  boot.  But  no  guns,  no  cannon,  not  even 
a  firecracker  has  been  heard,  nothing  bigger  than  a  tor 
pedo.  .  .  .  Many  people  have  left  Cambridge.  I  suppose 
all  the  boys  are  suppressed  by  law,  clapped  into  barrels, 
or  sent  off  somewhere.  But  O  these  bells!  It  is  a  little 
too  much.  There  is  a  big  Newfoundland  dog  in  the  street, 
who  evidently  can't  stand  it;  he  is  running  about  barking. 
Certainly  pealing  and  barking  go  naturally  together.  .  .  . 

CAMBRIDGE,  November  26,  1874. 

This  is  Thanksgiving  Day  and  a  bright  sun  is  shining 
in  at  my  study  windows,  and  giving  me  strong  hints  that 
I  ought  to  be  thankful  for  a  great  many  things,  —  too 
numerous  to  mention.  One  thing  I  am  sure  of,  that  I 
thank  Heaven  for  you,  though  I  don't  see  you  in  the  flesh, 


CAMBRIDGE  285 

and  don't  know  whether  I  shall  see  you  or  not,  on  "the 
other  side."  I  wish  I  had  your  perfect  faith  in  that.  One 
thing,  however,  I  am  sure  of,  and  that  is  that  all  is  and 
will  be  for  the  best,  and  if  it  is  best,  we  shall  meet  there, 
we  shall  meet.  But  it  is  all  a  mystery.  You  modestly  count 
yourself  out  of  the  circle  of  the  shining  ones.  But  if  your 
statue  were  set  in  the  right  light,  I  know  many  others 
whom  the  world  applauds  who  wouldn't  be  worthy  to 
hold  a  candle  to  you.  Do  you  remember  Hawthorne's 
story  of  the  "Great  Stone  Face?"  I  am  reminded  of  it 
when  I  think  of  you,  of  all  you  are  and  have  been,  though 
you  have  n't  the  art  of  putting  your  best  foot  foremost, 
and  early  in  life  contracted  that,  I  suppose  hereditary 
habit,  of  dodging  the  crowns  of  glory  that  were  seeking 
you  out,  —  and  running  to  hide  your  light  under  every 
bushel  measure  you  could  lay  hold  of  in  the  streets  of  Cin 
cinnati.  If  you  ever  do  succeed  in  getting  on  the  other  side 
of  Jordan,  in  a  conscious  state  of  existence,  I  hope  the 
first  thing  you  will  take  lessons  in,  —  but  you  must  go  to 
school  to  some  very  old  and  experienced  and  worldly- 
wise  angel,  —  will  be  to  take  your  angel-trumpet  and 
blow  it;  not  vaguely  hint  that  you  deserve  to  have  a 
trumpet,  or  if  you  have  it,  insist  upon  not  playing  solos 
on  it,  even  in  your  own  parlor,  but  put  up  with  a  back 
seat  somewhere  in  an  orchestra!  Now,  the  fact  is,  that  I 
have  learned  a  little  of  this  worldly  wisdom,  though,  to 
be  sure,  rather  late  in  life.  Some  of  that  sort  of  Cranch- 
iness  you  allude  to  has  been  slowly  oozing  out  of  me  with 
the  gathering  of  the  snows  of  age  upon  my  old  head.  Un 
fortunately  it  is  rather  late  to  turn  it  to  any  successful 
account.  I  suppose,  on  the  whole,  it  is  of  little  use  now 
for  either  of  us  to  try  to  step  forward  to  the  foot-lights  and 
insist  upon  a  solo.  Have  n't  the  audience  seen  us  all  along 
back  there  alongside  the  meek  bassoons  and  monotonous 


286    CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 

kettle-drums?  Have  n't  they  seen  me,  at  least,  "trying 
the  stops  of  various  quills,"  from  the  clerical  trombone  to 
the  secular  and  artistic  flute,  and  what  chance  hath  such 
an  one,  should  he  announce  himself  as  a  singer  or  an  or 
ganist?  Of  such  things,  if  we  succeed  in  getting  that  free 
pass  to  the  other  land,  we  will  talk  one  day,  not  with 
stooping  shoulders  and  hoary  beards  over  the  latter  end 
of  a  sea-coal  fire,  but  strolling  along  the  shining  streets 
or  out  in  the  meadows  of  Asphodel,  with  no  debtors  after 
us,  no  bankrupt  court  business  haunting  us,  no  ridiculous 
abstracts  of  time  and  space  to  surmount,  before  we  can 
have  our  talk.  Seriously,  to  me,  all  reason,  all  analogy, 
all  type  and  correspondence  intimates  that  hoped-for 
conscious,  and  if  conscious,  then  social  state  of  being 
beyond  the  utter  incompleteness  of  this  life.  Over  and 
over  I  have  reasoned  myself  into  the  belief  and  have 
written  out  my  reasons  so  that  it  would  seem  like  a  tre 
mendous  mockery,  a  lifelong  practical  joke,  altogether 
out  of  keeping  with  my  idea  of  the  perfect  love  and  wis 
dom  of  the  great  divine  order,  this  limiting  existence,  i.e., 
conscious  existence,  which  is  the  only  existence  worth 
anything,  to  this  little  period  of  life  on  our  speck  of  a 
planet.  We  are  something  more  than  coral  insects,  I  take 
it,  put  here  only  to  build  up  our  little  atom  of  the  great 
world-reefs  for  those  that  come  after.  There  is  n't  a 
greater  philosophical  humbug  than  M.  Compte's  "Im 
mortality  of  the  Race." 

I  don't  know  how  I  got  into  this  sermonizing  strain,  I 
suppose  it  was  your  letter,  and  the  morning  sun  at  my 
windows,  and  the  stillness  of  Thanksgiving  Day  that 
set  me  going.  But  when  we  can  talk,  let  us  talk.  Why 
don't  we  talk  oftener?  If  it  were  as  easy  to  write,  as  to 
speak,  I  suppose  we  should,  only  once  in  a  while  some 
harmony  of  circumstances  makes  it  easy. 


CAMBRIDGE  287 

Last  night  we  had  a  little  party,  about  a  dozen.  Among 
our  guests  were  Charles  Elliott  and  wife,  our  near  neigh 
bors,  and  your  friend,  Mrs.  Sarah  Perkins.  After  tea  and 
chocolate  we  had  quite  a  jolly  evening.  Miss  Lizzie 
Boott  sang  an  Italian  song  and  her  Pa,  Mr.  Frank  Boott 
sang  two  of  his  own  songs,  a  good  pair  of  Boots,  and  I 
sang  "Heathen  Chinee"  and  "Chiquita,"  and  "Isaac 
Abbott,"  and  made  the  crying  baby.  After  which  our 
friend  Brooks  gave  his  inimitable  specimens  of  acting  — 
"Widow  Bedott"  and  the  old  woman  telling  the  shad 
story,  ending  with  his  celebrated  Fourth  of  July  oration. 

CAMBRIDGE,  February  19,  1875. 

I  must  tell  you  of  a  great  pleasure  I  have  had  in  read 
ing  over  several  bundles  of  old  letters  of  Father's  and 
Grandfather  Cranch's.  They  were  sent  to  me  by  Richard 
Greenleaf,  in  whose  possession  they  have  been  until  now. 
He  wrote  me  a  note  saying  that  I  ought  to  have  them. 
But  they  don't  belong  to  me  any  more  than  to  you.  I 
know  you  will  be  glad  to  read  them  when  you  get  time, 
—  and  if  you  come  on  to  see  me,  or  if  I  should  come  on 
to  see  you,  we  will  have  that  pleasure  together.  There 
are  several  letters  of  Grandfather  Cranch  to  Grand 
mother,  while  he  was  in  Boston,  in  the  Court  of  Common 
Pleas,  —  she  being  in  Brain  tree,  —  and  a  few  notes  from 
Father  while  in  college  —  to  grandfather.  But  the  great 
bulk  of  the  letters  are  from  Father  while  in  Washington, 
with  rough  drafts  of  Grandfather's  answers.  These  extend 
from  about  1792  to  1811.  They  open  to  me  many  vistas  in 
the  family  affairs  and  tell  many  events  I  knew  nothing 
about.  Everything  is  so  circumstantially  detailed  that 
I  seem  almost  to  have  remembered  it.  All  his  plans,  his 
uncertainties,  his  despondencies,  his  hopes,  his  removals 
from  house  to  house,  his  purchases  and  speculations  — 


288    CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 

his  farms,  his  sheep  —  the  politics  of  the  day  —  under 
Jefferson's  administration  —  the  fears  of  Executive  in 
terference  with  the  Judiciary  —  the  honors  that  fell  to  him 
-  the  various  ups  and  downs  of  health  and  sickness,  the 
children,  the  neighbors,  etc.;  and  all  so  closely  written, 
in  the  same  even,  familiar  hand  we  used  to  know  so  well. 
Then  the  relations  between  him  and  his  parents  —  so 
tender  and  affectionate  and  deferential  —  the  light  too  — 
shed  on  Grandfather  Cranch,  brings  me  for  the  first  time 
to  an  acquaintance  with  this  remarkable  man.  I  wish 
to  heaven  we  had  some  sort  of  portrait  of  him.  There  was 
once  a  pencil  drawing  of  him  by  father  —  a  mere  rough 
sketch,  that  I  remember  having  seen.  What  became  of 
it?  Nothing  of  our  Grandmother  either.  How  did  it 
happen  they  were  never  painted?  When  on  the  Greenleaf 
side  the  portraits  go  back  a  generation  or  two  farther? 

The  letters  end  abruptly,  just  before  the  Hon.  Richard 
Cranch's  death  in  1811.  Grandmother  Cranch,  I  think, 
died  the  same  year,  and  very  shortly  afterwards.  The 
birth  of  each  child  is  mentioned  in  Father's  letters  — 
and  sometimes  there  are  little  notices  of  them,  as  boys 
and  girls.  .  .  . 

I  feel  now  like  a  person  who  has  read  only  the  first 
volume  of  a  novel,  and  knows,  or  fears  the  second  is  lost. 
I  want  to  follow  the  fortunes  of  the  family  from  Washing 
ton  to  Alexandria,  and  see  how  I  came  into  the  world; 
and  to  know  some  few  incidents  attending  my  early 
childhood.  Are  there  any  letters  preserved,  of  this  period? 
or  later?  Perhaps  Margie  has  some.  She  is  the  chief 
record  keeper  of  the  Cranch  family.  I  never  knew  before 
that  there  was  a  Christopher  Cranch  before  me  —  I  don't 
mean  the  infant  of  Mother's  that  died  —  but  a  Chris 
topher  in  Richard  Cranch's  time  —  in  England  —  one  of 
his  cousins.  It  looked  queer  to  see  his  signature  on  those 


CAMBRIDGE  289 

yellow  old  letters.  One  of  the  most  interesting  letters 
of  Grandfather's,  is  one  in  which  he  tells  of  the  original 
Christopher  Pearse,  for  whom  I  was  named.  He  was  our 
Grandfather's  grandfather  and  must  have  been  born 
during  Cromwell's  Civil  War. 

George  William  Curtis  to  Mr.  Cranch 

ASHFIELD,  MASSACHUSETTS, 
August  1,  1875. 

My  long  intention  to  write  to  you  naturally  conquers 
me  to-day,  and  I  pledge  you  and  Lizzie  in  a  deep  draught 
of  affection  and  memory.  That  it  was  actually  so  long 
ago,  that  Saturday  morning  when  the  Nebraska  dropped 
down  the  harbor,  I,  of  course,  decline  to  believe.  I  know 
only  that  it  was  not  a  more  beautiful  morning  than  this, 
and  that  we  could  not  have  been  any  younger.  For  both 
of  us,  for  all  of  us,  what  a  rich  world  and  life  it  has  been 
since  that  day !  The  only  stain  is  that  you  and  Lizzie  will 
be  Arabs,  and  that  you  have  never  stopped  travelling 
since  the  summer  morn  when  we  cast  off  at  the  foot  of 
Wall  Street.  But  I  do  not  lose  faith  that  you  will  yet 
return  to  your  native  Staten  Island! 

Mr.  Cranch  to  his  brother  Edward 

CAMBRIDGE,  December  5/'1875. 

I  received  your  letter  to-day.  Sunday  is  a  lucky  day 
for  letters  I  think.  There  is  no  carrier,  but  I  go  to  the 
P.  O.  and  stand  in  the  queue,  and  I  am  generally  re 
warded  for  my  patience.  I  am  very  glad  you  got  my  book. 
I  was  afraid  it  miscarried.  It  is  delightful  to  have  such 
heartfelt  praise.  What  a  comfort  in  this  crowded  market- 
world,  where  our  particular  hobbies  are  so  shoved  aside 
and  knocked  down  and  run  over,  in  the  great  press  and 
thoroughfare,  to  have  a  brother  whisper  such  words  of 


290     CHRISTOPHER   PEARSE   CRAXCH 

encouragement!  Go  to!  you  and  I  and  a  very  few  others 
will  organize  a  mutual  appreciation  club  and  warm  each 
other's  inwards,  and  quaff  deep  draughts  of  the  wine  of 
brotherly  love  in  our  old  age,  and  the  gentle  exhilaration 
thereof,  shall  be  to  us  instead  of  the  intoxicating  fun 
the  Cup  of  Fame!  I  think  I  only  want  to  be  appreciated 
—  that's  what  we  all  want  rather  than  the  world's  fame. 

As  to  the  Libretto  for  the  "Cantata  of  America,"  I 
dare  say  I  was  very  rash  to  consent  to  do  it.  I  see  what 
may  be  done,  vaguely  see  it;  but  it  doesn't  at  all  shape 
itself  yet  to  me  in  a  lyric  or  dramatic  form.  I  have  no 
inspirations  as  yet,  I  shall  pray  for  them.  I  am  tolerable 
at  meditative  poetry  on  America,  as  you  may  see  in  my 
Phi  Beta  poem,  but  have  n't  got  hold  yet  of  a  conception 
for  dramatic  music. 

must  be  a  sort  of  chaos  to  begin  with,  like 
Haydn's  "Creation"  overture.  Do  you  remember 
Gardiner's  description  of  it  in  his  "Music  of  Nature? " 
Show  it  to  Mr.  Singer.  Let  him  make  his  overture.  But 
it  is  funny  my  saying  what  Mr.  Singer  ought  to  do,  before 
I  have  an  idea  of  my  own. 

How  would  it  do  to  have  a  wail  and  lamentation  from 
the  Red  Men,  on  their  vanishing  wigwams  and  hunting 
fields,  and  the  encroaching  white  pioneers?  But  some 
thing  grander  must  precede  this.  Mystical  voices  from 
the  old  world,  predicting  the  discovery  of  the  new  world, 
and  the  uprising  of  a  great  shining  continent  beyond  the 
unknown  ocean.  I  shall  have  to  pump  at  the  dry  c: 
of  my  wits;  perhaps  to  bore  an  artesian  well,  before  I 
touch  my  Castalian  fount.  I  am  frightened  to  think  of  it. 
But  if  /  don't  do  it,  somebody  else  will,  who  can't  do  it 
either.  If  ever  I  had  to  invoke  the  ?  t  is  now!  Let 

us  pray  for  favorable  conditions.    Medium  work  and 
spirit  manifestations  are  nothing  to  this. 


CAMBRIDGE  291 

Last  night  I  read  an  essay  on  Shakespeare's  Sonnets  at 
Mrs.  J.  T.  Sargent's  in  Boston. l  I  met  there  a  lady  I  knew 
in  New  York,  a  musician  and  writer,  who  likes  my  book 
immensely.  These  little  sops  are  sweet  under  the  tongue. 

1  Mr.  Cranch  was  often  called  upon  to  speak,  or  read  an  essay  at 
the  meetings  of  the  Boston  Radical  Club,  generally  held  at  the  home 
of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  John  T.  Sargent,  17  Chestnut  Street.  This  club 
had  gathered  in  nearly  all  the  freethinkers  of  Boston.  It  was  laughed 
at  in  New  York  as  too  intellectual  for  human  nature's  daily  food, 
and  was  called  a  "brainy"  club.  Many  of  its  members  had  been  Uni 
tarian  ministers,  who  had  left  the  pulpit,  as  too  cramping  an  atmos 
phere  for  their  unfettered  thought.  The  New  England  literary  lights 
gathered  here  to  hear  and  discuss  vital  philosophic  problems.  It  was 
the  most  advanced  club  in  Boston. 

Mr.  John  T.  Sargent,  the  founder,  had  been  a  Unitarian  pastor  with 
a  parish  in  Boston.  His  loyalty  to  Theodore  Parker  cost  him  his 
church.  He  did  not  hesitate  at  the  call  of  his  inward  convictions.  He 
held  true  to  these,  notwithstanding  the  pressure  from  without.  In 
those  days  Parker's  grand  iconoclastic  sermons  made  him  seem,  to 
conservative  Unitarians,  almost  a  heretic.  To-day  all  thought,  and 
thus  life,  is  profiting  by  the  courage  and  single-mindedness  of  the 
pioneers  in  religious  thought.  Channing,  Parker,  Emerson,  and  later, 
Bartol,  Hedge,  Cranch,  Sargent,  and  a  host  of  others,  helped  on  this 
spiritual  Renaissance. 

Mr.  Cranch  once  read  his  poem  "The  Bird  and  the  Bell"  at  this 
club.  This  poem  was  a  meditation  in  Rome  upon  the  freedom  of  the 
bird  contrasted  by  the  bondage  of  creed,  suggested  by  the  ringing  of 
church  bells.  The  discussion  which  followed  was  interesting.  From 
a  press  clipping,  at  the  time,  some  of  those  present  were:  "Rev. 
Samuel  Longfellow,  Rev.  Charles  G.  Ames  of  San  Francisco,  Bronson 
Alcott,  Mr.  John  S.  Dwight,  James  Redpath,  Rev.  Mr.  Potter  of  New 
Bedford,  Mrs.  Julia  Ward  Howe,  Mrs.  Edward  D.  Cheney,  Mrs.  A.  M. 
Diaz,  Mrs.  Caroline  M.  Severance,  and  Mrs.  Laura  Curtis  Bullard  of 
New  York." 

Mr.  Cranch  made  a  favorable  impression  in  his  reading.  To  quote 
from  a  newspaper  clipping:  "The  reader's  face,  voice  and  manner 
added  very  much  to  the  charm  of  his  poem.  He  is  tall  and  squarely 
built,  with  a  strong,  yet  sensitive  face,  white  hair  and  beard;  his 
manner  is  pleasing;  and  there  is  a  certain  magnetism  about  him  that 
placed  him  at  once  en  rapport  with  his  audience,  while  his  voice  is 
sympathetic  and  held  even  those  who  could  not  see  his  face." 


CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 

To  George  William  Curtis 

CAMBRIDGE,  December  26,  1875. 

I  was  exceedingly  glad  to  hear  from  Mrs.  Curtis's 
letter  of  the  16th,  for  which  please  thank  her,  that  you 
were  so  much  better.  I  hope  nothing  has  occurred  to 
give  you  a  Hinterschlag,  but  that  you  and  the  beautiful 
weather  have  duly  agreed  with  each  other,  and  that  you 
have  been  able  to  take  your  walks,  and  have  gained 
strength  daily.  I  am  anxious  to  hear  again,  and  hope  you 
or  Mrs.  Curtis  will  drop  me  a  line  to  confirm  our  hopes. 
We  remembered  you  at  our  Christmas  dinner  yesterday, 

—  only  three  of  us  at  the  table  now,  you  know.  .  .  . 

I  have  been  busy  painting  several  small  pictures.  .  .  . 
I  have  also  done  some  good  poetical  work,  the  best  of 
which  I  consider  ten  sonnets  addressed  to  my  brother 
Edward.  I  write  no  sonnets  now  except  in  the  orthodox 
Italian  manner,  with  the  double  rhymes.  I  have  taken  a 
studio  in  Boston  for  the  winter,  and  shall  get  into  it  in 
the  New  Year.  I  shall  throw  out  my  nets.  There  is 
better  fishing  in  Boston  than  in  Cambridge,  which  is  the 
the  deadest  place  for  art  I  know. 

George  William  Curtis  to  Mr.  Cranck 

WEST  NEW  BRIGHTON,  December  31,  1875. 
Your  letter  was  very  welcome  and  finds  me  quite  well 
again.   The  trouble  seemed  to  be  an  attempt  at  gastric 

fever,  which  our  old  Doctor  D skilfully  baffled.   I 

read  your  book  with  my  heart  as  well  as  with  my  eyes 
and  mind.  It  is  like  you  as  a  photograph  is,  into  which 
the  full  likeness  does  not  get,  yet  which  wonderfully  re 
produces  the  person.  It  is  full  of  an  inward  music  for  me, 

—  the  music  of  happy  memory,  none  the  less  happy  that 
by  distance  it  is  somewhat  shadowy  and  pensive.  I  have 
never  ceased  to  be  glad  that  my  first  sight  and  feeling  of 


CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRAXCH,  1878 


CAMBRIDGE  293 

Italy  were  with  you,  who  in  the  true  sense  are  an  Italian, 
and  son  of  the  South.  My  mind  constantly  reverts  to 
Rome,  and  Rome  in  those  young  days  of  glory  in  the  past 
is  forever  blended  with  you.  I  hope,  but  I  do  not  suppose, 
that  the  book  "sells."  I  do  not  suppose  it  because  I 
know  how  slowly  the  wares  of  Parnassus  go. 

Mr.  Cranch  to  his  brother  Edward 

CAMBRIDGE,  February  27,  1876. 

I  think  the  lines  I  send  must  end  the  Cantata.  If  any 
more  is  needed  by  Mr.  Singer,  please  let  me  know.  The 
whole  thing  seems  rather  short,  but  then  I  know  the 
music  has  a  way  of  spreading  it  out  over  a  large  surface. 
If  it  is  only  the  right  thing,  a  little  goes  a  great  way.  I 
am  glad  that  what  I  have  done  pleases.  I  am  open  to  any 
suggestions  of  emendation.  .  .  . 

I  go  to  Boston  every  day  to  my  Studio;  but  must  give 
it  up  either  by  the  middle  of  March  or  1st  of  April.  Carrie 
is  there  part  of  the  time. 

Did  you  read  my  sonnet  on  "Pennyroyal "  in  the  March 
"Atlantic"?  I  wrote  it  last  summer  in  the  country,  one 
Sunday  morning  lying  under  an  oak-tree.  I  thought  my 
love  of  pennyroyal  was  a  specialty  of  mine  and  a  few 
others,  but  it  seems  the  sonnet  has  brought  out  half  a 
dozen  sympathizers.  Only  to-day  I  received  the  thanks 
of  an  old  Boston  lawyer,  and  at  the  same  time  Howells 
showed  me  a  letter  from  a  gentleman  in  West-Newton, 
with  a  poem  which  he  had  named  "Pennyroyal,"  till  he 
saw  mine;  very  good,  too,  it  is.  I  will  here  transcribe  some 
lines  of  mine,  which  will  appear  in  the  "Atlantic,"  some 
time.  They  are  to  nobody  in  particular,  but  to  a  sort  of 
Ideal  Voice. 

All  day  within  me,  sweet  and  clear 
The  song  you  sang  is  ringing. 


294    CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCHj 

At  night  in  my  .half-dreaming  ear 
I  hear  you  singing,  singing. 

Ere  thought  takes  up  its  homespun  thread 

When  early  morn  is  breaking, 
Sweet  snatches  hover  round  my  head, 

And  cheer  me  when  awaking. 

The  sunrise  brings  the  melody 

I  only  half  remember: 
And  summer  seems  to  smile  for  me, 

Although  it  is  December. 

Through  drifting  snow,  through  dropping  rain, 
Through  gusts  of  wind,  it  haunts  me: 

The  tantalizing  old  refrain 
Perplexes,  yet  enchants  me.1 

Mr.  Cranch  to  George  William  Curtis 

CAMBRIDGE,  January  10,  1877. 

I  should  have  replied  before  to  your  kind  letter.  Mr. 
Alden  has  probably  told  you  that  he  has  accepted  the 
poem  I  sent  through  you,  and  has  paid  me  for  the  lines 
and  illustrations,  for  which  I  consider  myself  in  great 
measure  indebted  to  you.  I  am  much  gratified  too  that 
you  and  Mr.  Shaw  liked  my  verses  in  the  "Atlantic." 
Boott,  who  is  now  in  Rome,  has  set  to  music  some  of  the 
stanzas,  and  has  sent  it  to  Ditson  for  publication.  .  .  . 
You  have  doubtless  heard  that  Story  is  a  grandpa.  But 
Boott  only  alludes  to  this  distantly,  and  tells  me  nothing 
about  the  Maestro. 

We  had  a  glorious  concert  here  last  night  at  Sanders 
Theatre.  .  .  .  Paine's  new  Romanza,  and  Scherzo  for 
piano  and  'cello  went  off  finely.  All  the  Cambridge  elite 
are  at  these  concerts,  and  a  good  many  Bostonians.  I 
think  you  have  n't  seen  the  new  theatre.  It  is  very  beauti- 

1  The  poem  is  printed  slightly  altered  in  Ariel  and  Caliban  and  is 
called  "lone." 


CAMBRIDGE  295 

ful,  holds  fifteen  hundred  people,  and  is  well  adapted  to 
music.  In  the  Beethoven  Trio  for  piano,  violin,  and 
'cello,  the  Andante  Cantabile  was  the  most  divine  thing 
I  have  heard  for  a  long  time.  I  saw  John  Dwight  and 
Lowell  and  Norton,  and  other  friends  of  yours  at  a  dis 
tance. 

On  Monday  next  is  the  Annual  Dinner  of  the  Harvard 
Musical  Association  at  Parker's  in  Boston,  where  I  shall 
give  my  contribution  in  the  shape  of  some  verses,  of  a 
light  and  humorous  vein. 

Write  and  tell  me  how  you  have  been  this  cold  and 
snowy  winter.  I  keep  Carrie's  sketch  of  you  on  my  study 
mantelpiece  and  look  at  it  every  day.  It  is  very  like  you, 
and  /  think,  is  a  masterly  sketch  rough  and  unfinished  as 
it  is. 

John  Bigelow  to  Mr.  Cranch 

294  STATE  STREET,  ALBANY.    (1876.) 

It  seems  to  be  in  the  order  of  Providence  that  I  should 
renew  my  intercourse  with  you  after  a  long  separation,  as 
the  Messenger  of  Affliction.  I  have  just  received  a  letter 
from  my  son  giving  an  account  of  his  shipwreck  at 
Yokohama  and  of  his  first  two  days  in  that  city;  his  diary 
and  previous  letters  not  having  come  to  hand. 

With  his  letter  is  a  sort  of  log  kept  on  the  margin  of  a 
map  in  which  is  registered  the  distance  and  course  of  the 
ship  each  day,  from  New  York  to  the  rock  on  which  it 
split,  with  a  brief  entry  of  any  unusual  incident.  I  was 
shocked  to  read  opposite  November  15,  the  following: 
"  Quincy  Cranch  fell  off  the  mizzen  royal  yard  and  was 
killed  —  Ship  kept  her  course." 

On  the  tracing  of  the  route  opposite  the  17th  day  of 
November  there  is  the  following  entry,  "Death  of 
Cranch  38.56°  lat.,  18.28°  long.  Cape  of  Good  Hope. 


296    CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 

This  is  all,  and  yet  far  too  much!  Doubtless  you  will 
have  heard,  before  this,  fuller  details  of  this  catastrophe. 
Should  my  son's  diary,  or  letters,  ever  come  to  hand,  I 
will  profit  by  anything  they  may  contain  to  answer  some 
of  the  numerous  questions  which  this  meagre  record  will 
provoke. 

You  will  break  this  intelligence  to  Mrs.  Cranch  and 
your  family  as  you  best  can.  God  knows  how  sincerely 
I  sympathize  with  you  and  them. 

Mr.  Cranch  to  George  William  Curtis 

CAMBRIDGE,  March  19,  1876. 

Your  kind  letter  was  received,  telling  us  what  we  are 
always  sure  of,  your  love  and  sympathy.  Our  poor  boy, 
as  you  may  have  heard  before  this,  fell  from  the  mizzen 
royal  yards  on  the  15th  of  November  last.  He  must  have 
been  killed  immediately,  for  he  struck  the  starboard 
quarter  boat,  from  which  he  fell  into  the  sea.  This  is  all 
we  know.  It  must  have  occurred  somewhere  near  the 
Cape  of  Good  Hope,  as  we  gather  from  a  letter  from  Mr. 
John  Bigelow,  who  had  a  son  on  board  the  Surprise,  who 
sends  him  his  diary,  in  which  Quincy's  death  is  confirmed. 
The  shock  to  us  all  was  terrible,  made  all  the  more  sad,  by 
our  utter  ignorance  of  all  that  had  occurred  to  him  on 
board  ship  since  he  sailed  on  the  twenty-fifth  of  Septem 
ber.  The  last  word  we  had  from  him  was  a  postal  card  off 
Sandy  Hook. 

Lizzie  was  away  at  Fishkill  when  I  read  the  letter  from 
Mr.  Tuckerman  enclosing  the  brief  extract  from  the 
Captain's  letter  to  Mr.  Lyman,  partner  of  A.  A.  Low  & 
Co.  It  was  on  the  8th — my  birthday,  at  five  o'clock  P.M. 
as  I  returned  from  Boston.  Carrie  and  I  held  a  consulta 
tion,  and  it  was  thought  it  would  never  do  for  Lizzie  to 
come  back  alone,  so  I  left  Boston  in  the  nine  o'clock  train 


CAMBRIDGE  297 

that  night  and  waited  for  the  train  from  Fishkill.  It  was 
there,  at  the  station,  that  she  first  learned  the  news.  We 
left  that  afternoon  and  returned.  Lizzie  was  ill  for  several 
days,  but  she  is  now  well  again,  and  strong,  and  full  of 
faith  that  she  will  see  her  boy  again.  Then  he  is  spared 
so  much  struggle  and  trial  in  this  world.  The  sharpest 
bitterness  of  the  blow  is  becoming  gradually  less.  It  is  a 
blessed  thing  that  we  have  work  to  engross  us.  This,  and 
time  are  the  great  consolers. 

George  William  Curtis  to  Mr.  Cranch 

WEST  NEW  BRIGHTON,  February  21,  1877. 

. .  .  Life  goes  with  us  as  usual.  Your  old  avenue  is  get 
ting  well  peopled.  Mr.  Shaw  has  built  three  new  houses 
on  it  during  the  year  and  now  proposes  two  more.  As  I  go 
out  to  my  daily  walk,  I  do  not  fail  to  see  Lizzie  potter 
ing  over  her  plants  in  the  sunshine,  and  I  wonder  why  you 
do  not  come  out  and  join  me.  Sidney  Gay  is  my  only 
companion,  but  with  you  I  recall  Italy  and  "golden 
joys." 

Politically  it  has  been  a  most  exciting  winter,  and  the 
end  is  not  until  the  fourth  of  March  is  gone.  Luckily  I 
have  no  kind  of  official  ambition,  so  my  soul  is  at  rest. 
My  Lizzie's  music  is  a  great  delight,  and  for  so  young  a 
girl,  she  plays  very  well. 

Mr.  Cranch  to  his  brother  Edward 

CAMBRIDGE,  December  30,  1877. 

It  does  me  good  to  hear  from  you,  after  so  many  months 
of  silence.  Don't  give  up  writing  to  me ;  if  only  a  few  lines. 
Let  us  make  this  one  of  our  duties  and  pleasures  for  the 
year  1878.  Life  is  short,  and  thousands  of  miles  and  long 
periods  of  time  between  us,  but  postage  is  cheap,  and  a 


298    CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 

letter  now  and  then  is  a  bright  star  rising  on  our  darkness. 
I  thank  God  that  you  and  I  only  grow  old  in  body,  not  in 
soul.  We  are  old  boys.  Let  us  hullo  to  each  other  still 
across  the  mists  that  are  settling  around  us,  and  if  we 
can't  see  each  other  we  can  hear  each  other's  voices. 

On  Christmas  Day  I  was  sick  in  bed  with  an  attack  of 
vertigo,  a  thing  I  never  had  before.  (But  our  good 
Doctor  soon  cured  me.)  We  were  all  invited  to  dine  at 
Henry  James's;  but  Lizzie  and  Carrie  went  without  me. 

I  was  at  the  "Atlantic"  dinner,  on  Whittier's  seventieth 
birthday,  of  which,  I  suppose,  you  have  seen  an  account. 
I  did  n't  get  home  till  near  two  o'clock,  I  believe;  but 
then  I  waited  for  Mr.  Houghton  who  brought  me  out  in 
his  carriage.  I  had  written  a  sonnet  to  Whittier,  and  sent 
it  to  him,  and  received  a  pleasant  answer  from  him;  but 
as  the  sonnet  was  printed  in  the  "Tribune,"  it  could  n't 
properly  be  read  at  the  dinner. 

The  next  evening  I  was  at  a  party  in  Boston,  at  Mr. 
Eldredge's — brother-in-law  to  Story — who  was  there,  the 
party  being  for  him.  It  was  a  big,  fashionable  party,  and 
though  I  went  late,  I  was  almost  the  first  there,  and  be 
sides,  much  to  my  disgust,  had  on  a  pair  of  shrilly  creak 
ing  boots,  and  there  was  no  carpet  on  the  stairs!  This 
was  awful.  But  I  said  to  myself,  "I'm  an  old  gentleman, 
what  matters  it?"  This  looks  as  if  I  were  a  society  man. 
But  I'm  not.  I'm  almost  a  hermit. 

To  Mrs.  Scott 

CAMBRIDGE,  April  5,  1878. 

...  I  am  sorry  you  have  the  "blues."  Yet  you  would 
n't  be  a  real  chip  of  the  old  block,  if  you  had  n't  them 
sometimes.  Some  bodily  and  mental  temperaments  are 
subject  to  them,  and  some  are  not;  and  it  is  hard  for  the 
latter  to  understand  the  former.  I  used  to  be  greatly 


CAMBRIDGE  299 

troubled  that  way,  and  am  sometimes  still.  Your  mother's 
temperament  is  totally  different  from  mine  and  she  never 
could  understand  the  malady.  It  is  probably  one  third 
circumstances,  and  two  thirds  inherited  temperament, 
and  of  course  is  aggravated  by  any  temporary  derange 
ment  of  bodily  health.  The  only  remedy  is  occupation, 
and  putting  ourselves,  if  possible,  into  the  currents  of 
healthy  and  joyous  influences.  It  is  like  the  change  of  the 
weather.  In  nine  cases  out  of  ten  it  is  as  hard  to  account 
for  the  blues  as  it  is  for  meteorological  changes. 

We  have  been  having  Sunday  afternoon  meetings;  a 
little  movement  got  up  among  some  of  the  liberal  people 
"unchurched"  in  Cambridge.  They  are  small  gatherings 
of  about  twenty  or  more  gentlemen  and  ladies,  meeting  at 
each  other's  houses,  where  an  essay  is  read  and  followed 
by  conversation.  They  have  been  very  interesting.  The 
first  meeting  was  in  our  parlor,  March  10,  where  I  read 
aloud  the  "Immortal  Life";  the  second,  at  Mr.  Parks's, 
where  Mr.  Beckwith,  a  young  minister,  read  about 
"Centripetal  and  Centrifugal  Forces  in  Thought,  and  in 
Society";  the  third,  at  Mrs.  Stearns's,  essay  by  Professor 
C.  C.  Everett  on  "Nature";  the  fourth,  at  our  house, 
essay  by  Mr.  Weiss  on  "Idealism  and  Materialism." 
Weiss  and  John  Dwight  dined  with  us  that  day.  The 
conversation  was  more  interesting  than  usual,  much  less 
formal  and  bookish  and  stilted  than  at  Mrs.  Sargent's 
Club.  We  have  had  no  organization,  or  name  as  yet,  and 
I  don't  know  whether  we  shall,  except  the  appointment  of 
a  Committee,  of  which  I  am  chairman,  to  provide  read 
ers.  Next  Sunday,  Mr.  Sydney  H.  Morse  reads,  and  the 
next,  Dr.  Hedge  at  his  house.  I  think  it  would  be  a  good 
thing  for  you  to  try  it  in  Burlington,  where,  I  dare  say, 
there  are  a  good  many  who  don't  go  to  church,  yet  feel 
the  need  of  some  spiritual  and  intellectual  communion. 


300    CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 

To  his  brother  Edward 

(1878.) 

.  .  .  Once  they  were  all  up  before  daylight  and  started 
off  in  a  wagon  for  the  prairie,  which  they  saw  at  sunrise, 
starting  up  meadow  larks  and  quail  and  other  birds,  in  the 
crisp  frosty  morning,  now  and  then  getting  out  to  walk 
and  warm  themselves.  Carrie,1  with  her  artist's  eye  and 
soul,  was  delighted  with  the  scenery.  They  were  gone 
three  or  four  days  from  Burlington.  On  the  way  back, 
C.  and  N.  must  needs  take  a  ride  on  the  engine!  which,  I 
suppose,  is  a  sort  of  initiation  into  real  Western  life. 
Some  ladies  told  C.  the  cow-catcher  was  even  preferable 
to  the  engine!  They  had  about  twenty  minutes  of  it;  it 
was  exciting,  but  a  rough  ride.  .  .  . 

If  you  want  to  know  what  I  have  been  doing,  I  can 
hardly  tell  you.  Only  I  am  generally  busy  about  some 
thing.  I  try  my  hand  at  too  many  things,  I  know,  but 
somehow  I  can't  help  it.  ...  I  send  some  verses  occa 
sionally  to  some  magazine,  and  I  paint  pictures.  .  .  .  My 
latest  things  have  been  some  water-colors,  chiefly  Vene 
tian  subjects,  which  I  shall  send  to  the  New  York  Exhibi 
tion  for  February.  I  sold  two  there  last  year.  And  these 
are  better.  .  .  . 

Then,  translating  verse  is  one  of  my  vanities.  I  believe 
I  told  you  I  had  done  the  ten  Eclogues  of  Virgil  into 
hexameter,  line  for  line.  This  was  some  time  ago.  I 
think  it  is  one  of  the  best  things  I  have  done.  Lately  I 
have  been  trying  my  hand  at  a  few  of  the  Odes  of  Horace. 
One  of  them  is  published  in  the  first  number  of  the  New 
Series  of  Dwight's  "Journal."  So  you  see  I  try  "the 
stops  of  various  quills."  I  have  enough  translations  of 
shorter  poems,  of  the  German  and  Latin  chiefly,  to  make 
a  volume,  but  there  is  no  demand  for  such  wares.  .  .  . 
1  Miss  Cranch  was  visiting  her  sister  in  the  West. 


JOHN   WEISS 


CAMBRIDGE  301 

But  I  am  running  on,  and  here  is  the  end  of  my  paper. 
I  will  hunt  up  that  "Symposium."  I  like  such  reading, 
too.  But  sometimes  I  like  to  cut  loose  from  all  thought  on 
the  Problem  of  Life,  which  I  can  never  solve  and  go  back 
to  my  canvas  and  brushes,  where  I  can  enjoy  work  and 
not  be  obliged  to  think  on  these  tangled  questions. 

CAMBRIDGE,  May  21,  1879. 

We  have  just  returned  from  a  two  months'  visit  to  New 
York.  We  kept  house  in  the  Gilders'  rooms.  Mr.  R.  W. 
Gilder  the  poet  and  his  wife,  Mrs.  Helena  DeKay  Gilder, 
who  is  a  painter  and  a  friend  of  Carrie's,  have  gone  to 
Europe  for  a  few  months,  and  we  stepped  into  their 
place,  which  consists  of  two  big  rooms,  one  of  which  is 
a  studio,  entered  through  a  court  and  an  iron  gate  which 
opened,  in  foreign  fashion,  by  pulling  a  long  wire  from 
within.  Our  bedrooms  were  only  spaces  partitioned  off 
by  screens.  We  had  a  basement  below  with  a  cooking 
stove,  and  the  Gilders  left  us  their  colored  girl  for  cook  and 
waitress.  They  left  all  their  books  and  furniture  and 
bric-a-brac  adornments.  We  found  butcher  and  baker 
and  grocer  within  easy  distance,  and  on  the  whole  were 
comfortable,  and  lived  cheaply.  I  managed  to  paint  a 
little,  but  having  no  room  to  myself,  did  no  writing  of  any 
consequence.  Carrie  was  very  busy  at  her  classes  and  Mr. 
Chase's  instruction  at  the  Artists'  League,  and  thinks  she 
derived  much  benefit  therefrom. 

We  made  two  visits  to  Staten  Island,  and  were  two 
weeks  up  the  River  to  see  our  relatives  in  Fishkill.  I  was 
within  three  doors  of  the  Century  Club,  and  they  gave 
me  a  card  of  admittance  during  the  time  I  was  in  the  city. 
We  saw  hosts  of  old  friends  and  acquaintances,  heard 
Frothingham  preach,  and  were  at  the  reception  given  to 
him  before  he  left  for  Europe,  which  was  a  great  occasion. 


302    CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 

Many  friends  wanted  us  to  stay  in  New  York,  but  it  is 
not  the  place  for  us.  It  is  too  big,  and  too  noisy.  I  was 
homesick  for  our  quiet  life  in  Cambridge,  and  am  very 
glad  to  get  back  again. 

I  wish  I  could  hear  from  you  sometimes.  But  I  ought 
not  to  complain,  for  if  I,  who  have  so  much  leisure  and 
the  free  use  of  my  fingers,  am  still  such  a  bad  correspond 
ent,  what  must  it  be  for  you  with  your  hours  crowded 
with  work  and  your  lame  wrist!  .  .  . 

I  can't  remember  when  you  wrote  to  me  last,  or  when 
I  wrote  to  you.  I  wish,  if  you  can't  write,  you  would 
dictate  an  epistle,  or  send  me  a  scrap  of  drawing.  Now  I 
come  to  think  of  it,  you  will  be  actually  seventy  years  old 
in  a  few  days !  And  I  am  creeping  along  close  to  your  steps. 
And  fate  still  separates  us,  and  the  mystery  of  life  and  of 
the  great  Future  still  wraps  us  about,  and  we  know  noth 
ing  about  the  Beyond!  And  yet  I  am  sure  that  all  will 
be  for  the  best.  Now  I  think  of  it,  I  will  send  you  four 
sonnets,  written  last  March,  on  this  great  theme.  But  I 
am  inclined  to  think  it  best,  if  we  can,  to  forget  all  about 
Death  and  the  Future,  and  live  in  the  Present.  We've 
got  to  let  these  things  take  care  of  themselves.  —  What 
have  we  got  to  do  with  it?  If  a  man  by  taking  thought  can't 
add  one  cubit  to  his  stature,  neither  can  he  add  one  day 
to  his  life.  All  we  can  do  is  to  submit  to  the  Great  Ruler 
of  events,  and  trust  and  hope.  My  great  creed  now  is  to 
believe  in  the  Unconscious  life,  and  take  counsel  of  it. 
And  its  great  lesson  is  Faith,  and  not  Doubt  or  Denial. 

And  I  trust  too  that  even  in  this  mortal  vale  we  shall 
meet  again,  and  that  before  long. 

CAMBRIDGE,  May  29,  1879. 

I  am  going  to  celebrate  your  birthday  by  transcribing 
a  poem  I  have  just  written,  —  finished  to-day,  but  I  don't 


CAMBRIDGE  303 

know  what  to  call  it.1  It  is  I  think  mainly  suggested  by  a 
very  remarkable  article  which  I  have  been  re-reading  for 
the  fourth  or  fifth  time,  written  by  a  friend  of  ours,  Dr. 
William  James,  son  of  Henry  James,  senior,  and  pub 
lished  in  the  January  number,  1878,  of  the  St.  Louis 
*'  Journal  of  Speculative  Philosophy."  I  wish  you  would 
look  it  up  and  read  it.  It  is  a  sharp  and  very  able  criti 
cism  of  Herbert  Spencer's  "Definition  of  Mind."  Dr. 
James  is  also  Professor  James,  Professor  of  Philosophy 
in  Harvard,  —  and  promises,  I  think,  to  make  a  great 
mark  as  a  philosophical  writer. 

To  George  William  Curtis 

MAGNOLIA,  MASSACHUSETTS, 
July  19,  1879. 

Here  we  are  by  the  seaside,  where  we  have  been  for  over 
a  week.  It  is  a  pretty  place,  with  plenty  of  trees  about  us, 
and  bushes,  which  grow  down  to  the  water's  edge.  We 
are  within  two  minutes'  walk  to  the  beach,  where  wife  and 
daughter  religiously  plunge  nearly  every  day  into  the  ice- 
cold  water.  But  I  don't  think  the  bathers,  on  the  whole, 
are  very  enthusiastic  in  their  devotions.  There  are  a  good 
many  very  nice  people  here,  mostly  ladies,  with  the  usual 
sprinkling  of  young  men,  married  and  single,  who  go 
about  in  colored  sailor  shirts  with  limp,  turn-down  collars, 
and  no  vests,  and  young  ladies  who  swing  in  hammocks 
and  read  novels,  and  a  select  dozen  of  whom  are  artists. 
We  have  very  small  rooms  in  the  Sea  View  Cottage,  and 
take  our  meals  at  the  Central  House,  which  is  Willow 
Cottage.  Rooms  all  full.  I  am  in  the  smallest  room,  I 
think,  I  ever  was  in,  say  about  eight  by  twelve  feet,  in 
cluding  the  closet.  But  have  a  fine  view  of  the  sea  from 
the  window.  The  table  is  excellent,  and  the  company 
1  "A  Word  to  Philosophers." 


304    CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 

refined  and  agreeable.  There  are  pretty  bits  among  the 
willows,  but  as  to  the  shore  views,  I  am  disappointed. 
Unfortunately  I  can't  take  my  long  exploring  walks,  as  I 
am  troubled  with  a  lame  rheumatic  knee,  which  seems  to 
get  no  better.  Yesterday  morning,  while  I  was  painting 
a  group  of  willows  with  the  sea  beyond,  three  New  York 
artists  made  me  a  call  as  they  were  taking  a  walk  in 
search  of  subjects.  .  .  . 

Our  anniversary  is  fast  approaching,  and  I  hope  to  hear 
from  you  as  usual  on  that  memorable  day.  How  goes  it 
at  Ashfield?  Give  our  love  to  all,  and  greet  the  green- 
wooded  hills  for  me. 

Oliver  Wendell  Holmes  to  Mr.  Cranch 

296  BEACON  STREET,  December  14,  1879. 
I  have  thanked  you  verbally  for  your  presence  at  our 
Breakfast,  and  for  the  beautiful  sonnet  which  you  did  me 
the  honor  of  reading  at  the  table.  But  I  am  not  satisfied 
without  writing  these  few  lines  to  say  that  I  most  fully 
appreciate  your  kindly  remembrance  which  took  such  a 
form  that  I  can  preserve  it  among  the  enduring  memorials 
of  what  was  to  me  one  of  the  great  occasions  of  my  un 
eventful  life. 

TO  OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES 

A  fountain  in  our  green  New  England  hills 

Sent  forth  a  brook,  whose  music,  as  I  stood 

To  listen,  laughed  and  sang  through  field  and  wood 

With  mingled  melodies  of  joyous  rills. 

Now,  following  where  they  led,  a  river  fills 

Its  channel  with  a  wide  calm  shining  flood 

Still  murmuring  on  its  banks  with  changeful  mood. 

So,  Poet,  sound  thy  "stops  of  various  quills," 

Where  waves  of  song,  wit,  wisdom  charm  our  ears 

As  in  thy  youth,  and  thoughts  and  smiles  by  turns 

Are  ours,  grave,  gay,  or  tender.  Time  forgets 

To  freeze  thy  deepening  stream.  The  stealthy  years 

But  bribe  the  Muse  to  bring  thee  amulets 

That  guard  the  soul  whose  fire  of  youth  still  burns. 


CAMBRIDGE  305 

George  William  Curtis  to  Mr.  Cranch 

WEST  NEW  BRIGHTON,  STATEN  ISLAND, 
April  18,  1880. 

What  do  I  hear  of  your  going  away?  How  can  you  do 
such  a  thing?  I  have  just  been  reading  your  beautiful 
verses  in  the  "  Atlantic."  They  are  very  touching  and  true, 
but  too  sad. 

Why  should  you  go  away?  What  have  we  all  done? 

To-day  the  spring  begins  here.  It  is  still,  and  warm, 
and  blue,  and  the  Forsythia,  and  Periwinkle,  and  com 
pany,  are  in  full  blast.  But  if  you  are  really  going,  what 
is  the  name  of  the  curse-rigged  ship,  and  when  does  she 
sail  and  whence?  I  shall  be  very,  very  sorry  if  this  story 
turns  out  to  be  true.  We  are  all  well,  and  we  all  send  our 
love  to  Lizzie  and  Carrie  and  you.  Don't  go! 

"Grow  old  along  with  me, 
The  best  is  yet  to  be!" 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THIRD   VISIT   TO   EUROPE 

M r.  Cranch  to  his  brother  Edward 

WEST  NEW  BRIGHTON,  STATEN  ISLAND, 
May  6,  1880. 

I  HAVE  been  intending  for  some  time  to  write  to  you, 
to  tell  you  what  perhaps  you  have  heard,  that  we  are  all 
going  to  Europe  next  month.  We  have  let  our  house  in 
Cambridge  furnished,  which  enables  us  to  carry  out  a 
plan  Lizzie  has  long  entertained,  to  go  abroad,  chiefly  on 
Carrie's  account.  It  is  a  fine  opportunity  for  her,  and 
will,  we  hope,  do  a  great  deal  towards  her  completion  in 
her  art  education.  .  .  . 

Dear  brother,  how  I  wish  I  could  have  come  out  to  see 
you  before  leaving !  I  had  a  vivid  dream  of  you  last  night, 
that  we  met,  and  I  cried  for  joy  to  embrace  you.  Well, 
one  of  these  days  we  may  yet  meet.  .  .  .  Ever  and  forever 
yours,  my  dear,  dear  brother. 

LONDON,  July  28,  1880. 
21  WOBURN  PLACE,  RUSSELL  SQUARE. 

It  is  high  time  I  sent  you  some  word  of  myself,  and 
ourselves,  from  this  side  of  the  ocean.  We  sailed  on  the 
9th  of  June  in  the  Cunarder  Algeria,  had  a  short  and 
pleasant  passage,  no  rough  weather,  a  very  good  company 
of  fellow- voyagers,  no  incidents  of  any  note,  and  arrived 
in  Liverpool  on  the  evening  of  Saturday,  the  19th.  We 
spent  part  of  Sunday  in  Liverpool,  and  then  took  train 
to  Chester,  a  wonderfully  interesting  old  city,  founded 
by  the  Romans,  part  of  the  old  wall  still  to  be  seen;  a  fine 


THIRD  VISIT  TO  EUROPE          307 

old  mediaeval  ruin  of  a  church,  and  another  called  the 
Phoenix  Tower.  There  is  a  fine  cathedral,  where  Carrie 
and  I  attended  a  late  Sunday  service,  after  which  was 
given  an  organ  recital,  from  a  very  excellent  organ  and 
organist,  of  a  part  of  Beethoven's  Fifth  Symphony.  The 
twilight  was  so  long  that  we  had  plenty  of  time  to  take  a 
walk  after  service,  and  saw  the  ruins  of  St.  John's  Church. 
The  old  tower  was  splendid  in  the  rosy  sunset,  and  we 
heard  some  delicious  bird  notes.  We  stayed  here  a  day 
or  two,  walked  round  the  old  walls  of  the  town,  and  saw 
the  mountains  of  North  Wales,  very  lovely  and  dreamy, 
in  the  distance.  The  weather  was  beautiful,  with  the 
finest  of  half-cloudy,  misty,  English  skies.  We  enjoyed 
our  ride  by  rail  to  London,  the  kind  of  landscape  be 
ing  all  new  to  us.  We  are  living  in  "lodgings"  —  two 
chambers  and  a  large  parlor,  which  is  also  our  dining- 
room.  We  order  what  we  want,  and  have  our  meals 
cooked  and  served  when  we  like.  Landlady  very  obliging 
and  service  very  good.  My  room  is  an  upper  one,  looking 
out  on  a  wide  prospect  of  black  backs  of  houses  and  an 
infinity  of  red  chimney  pots,  and  some  red-tiled  roofs. 
But  I  can't  begin  to  tell  you  how  wonderfully  interesting 
this  great  city  is.  One  might  live  years  here,  and  never 
see  all  one  wants  to  see.  Lizzie  is  not  able  to  walk  very 
far,  but  Carrie  and  I  take  long  walks,  and  see  the  streets, 
the  galleries,  the  museums,  the  parks,  and  so  on.  Con 
siderable  riding,  too,  we  have  done,  by  omnibus  or 
hansom.  Riding  is  cheap,  but  cheapness  is  a  snare  and 
a  temptation.  We  have  seen  a  little  of  the  British  Museum 
which  is  near  us,  Westminster  Abbey,  the  House  of  Lords, 
the  Exhibitions,  the  National  Gallery,  the  outside  of  Buck 
ingham  Palace,  the  great  parks,  the  Zoological  Gardens, 
and  have  been  to  Dulwich,  a  quiet,  shady-laned  place 
giving  us  the  first  suggestion  we  have  had  of  the  ideal 


308    CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 

rural  scenery  of  England.  Enjoyed  much  the  pictures  in 
the  Gallery. 

We  went  twice  to  hear  M.  D.  Conway,  at  his  chapel 
in  Finsbury,  and  I  was  twice  at  his  house  at  Cheswick, 
Turnham  Green,  where  I  met  Mr.  Froude  —  the  only 
distinguished  Englishman  I  have  seen.  We  took  a  walk 
about  Turnham  Green,  and  saw  the  house  where  Hume 
finished  his  history,  and  the  house  where  Hogarth  lived 
and  worked.  We  all  went  once  to  the  Lyceum  Theatre, 
and  saw  Irving  and  Miss  Terry,  in  the  "  Merchant  of 
Venice,"  a  capital  piece  of  acting.  There  was  an  excellent 
afterpiece,  "lolanthe,"  founded  on  Heine's  "King 
Rene's  Daughter,"  in  which  Miss  Terry  was  especially 
charming.  But  we  have  seen  very  few  Americans,  and 
sometimes  we  feel  lonely.  The  only  English  family  we 
have  seen  is  Mrs.  Gilchrist's,  —  they  live  at  Hampstead, 
north  of  London,  on  a  hill,  from  which  we  saw  very 
pretty  views.  Mrs.  G.  is  the  widow  of  the  author  of 
Blake's  biography;  we  made  their  acquaintance  in  New 
York.  A  few  of  our  American  friends  have  come  and 
gone.  .  .  . 

Carrie  is  copying  in  the  National  Gallery.  There  are 
only  two  days  in  the  week  when  students  are  allowed  to 
work  there;  she  has  made  only  small  sketchy  copies  so 
far.  This  gallery  is  perhaps  one  of  the  choicest  in  Europe. 
It  was  not  in  existence  when  I  was  here  twenty-five  years 
ago. 

The  other  day  C.  and  I  went  to  the  Kensington  Muse 
um,  walking  part  of  the  way  across  Hyde  Park.  We  went 
into  the  Indian  Department.  No  one  can  possibly  at 
tempt  a  description  of  the  magnificent  things  we  saw 
there,  the  Oriental  carpets,  shawls,  robes,  turbans,  silk 
stuffs,  of  colors  to  make  a  painter's  eye  dance  with  delight; 
swords,  guns,  sabres,  daggers,  horse  equipments,  how- 


GEORGE   WILLIAM  CURTIS 
From  an  oil  sketch  by  Caroline  Amelia  Cranch 


THIRD  VISIT  TO  EUROPE          309 

dahs,  jewels,  rings,  bracelets,  earrings,  photographs  of 
Hindoo  architecture.  But  this  was  only  a  portion  of  the 
wonderful  things  in  this  Museum.  Before  I  got  to  the 
picture  gallery,  my  brain  was  dizzy,  and  my  back  ache- 
ing.  The  British  Museum  is  another  wonderful  place, 
which  we  have  hardly  begun  to  explore.  It  seems  as  if 
London  was  appropriating  all  the  wonderful  and  beauti 
ful  things  of  the  world. 

The  parks  are  a  remarkable  feature  of  London.  They 
cover  an  immense  area.  From  St.  James's  Park,  which  is 
not  very  far  from  Westminster  Abbey  and  the  Thames, 
you  enter  Green  Park,  then  Hyde  Park,  walking  through 
miles  of  green  grass  and  trees,  and  think  you  are  far 
away  in  the  country  instead  of  the  heart  of  London. 
The  common  people  all  throng  through  these  walks,  and 
stretch  themselves  on  the  grass,  and  wheel  about  their 
children  every  day  in  the  week,  including  Sundays.  I 
don't  believe  there  is  anything  like  it  in  the  world.  From 
Woburn  Place,  where  we  are,  it  is  about  a  mile  to  Re 
gent's  Park,  a  lovely  place,  in  the  Northern  portion  of 
which  are  the  Zoological  Gardens.  .  .  . 

We  have  an  astonishing  climate  here  for  dog  days.  I 
have  worn  my  winter  clothes  ever  since  we  landed  in 
England.  We  have  a  good  deal  of  rain,  and  the  London 
air  is  almost  always  smoky,  but  we  have  very  fine  days 
too,  and  it  is  never  hot,  in  our  American  way.  It  is 
neither  hot  nor  cold,  but  an  even  temperature,  ranging 
between  60°  and  70°  that  makes  you  forget  the  weather 
entirely.  But  one  never  goes  out  without  an  umbrella. 
It  may  rain  at  any  moment,  and  rain  and  sunshine  follow 
one  another  a  dozen  times  during  the  day.  Every  gentle 
man,  so  't  is  said,  wears  a  stove-pipe  hat.  I  vowed  for 
two  weeks,  I  would  never,  no  never  wear  one.  But  I  had 
to  give  in;  add  to  this,  I  was  obliged  to  discard  my  cotton 


310    CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 

umbrella  and  buy  a  slender  silk  one.  Such  is  the  tyranny 
of  fashion! 

Here  follows  a  few  extracts  from  Mr.  Cranch's 
Journal:  — 

&  June  ^5.  ...  Went  to  the  Grosvenor  Gallery.  The  pic 
tures  here  are  better  than  at  the  Royal  Academy.  Some 
fine  portraits  by  Bastien  Le  Page,  Holl,  Richmond,  and 
others.  Terribly  disappointed  in  a  big  picture  by  Burne- 
Jones  —  a  troop  of  young  women  in  dirty  white  descend 
ing  a  spiral  staircase,  a  picture  without  any  motive  or 
meaning,  and  poor  and  cold  in  color.  The  modern  Eng 
lish  school  men  all  paint  on  a  high  key,  and  many  of  them 
without  any  shadows,  in  crude  and  chalky  colors.  Some 
good  water-colors  —  but  not  so  good  as  the  works  of  our 
best  American  water  colorists. 

Munkacsy's  "Two  Families"  at  the  Royal  Academy 
is  the  best  picture  there  —  very  fine  —  the  dogs  and 
children  wonderful.  .  .  . 

«««••••••• 

June  30.  Went  to  National  Gallery.  A  splendid  col 
lection.  Fine  Gainsboroughs,  Reynolds,  Hogarths,  — 
noble  'specimens  of  the  Venetian  school  —  Paul  Veron 
ese,  Titian,  Guardi,  Canaletto,  and  many  others.  Good 
collections  of  Turners.  My  brain  and  back  ached  with 
seeing  so  many  fine  pictures.  ...  Is  it  not  astounding 
that  the  modern  English  Painters,  with  this  noble  gallery 
right  under  their  eyes,  go  on  doing  such  poor  work  in 
color,  and  don't  seem  to  derive  any  benefit  from  the  pre 
cious  treasures  of  Art,  they  can  study  with  such  full 
opportunities? 

July  17.  To  Russell  Sturgis's,  Carlton  House  Terrace. 
We  went  by  appointment  to  see  his  pictures.  Magnificent 
house  —  might  be  called  a  palace.  He  took  us  all  over 


THIRD  VISIT  TO  EUROPE          311 

it.  A  good  many  excellent  family  portraits.  There  are 
four  pictures  of  mine,  painted  in  Paris  —  two  Niagaras, 
one  Venice  by  moonlight,  and  a  view  at  Nahant.  They 
all  look  very  well.  From  the  balcony  or  terrace  upstairs 
you  look  over  St.  James's  Park. 

Lizzie,  Carrie,  and  I  then  went  and  sat  awhile  in  St. 
James's  Park.  Then  Lizzie  took  a  hansom  home,  and 
Carrie  and  I  took  a  bus  to  Hyde  Park  Corner,  where  we 
sat  for  an  hour  or  two  looking  at  the  grand  carriages  go 
by,  with  their  liveried  and  powdered  and  wigged  coach 
men  and  footmen.  London  is  a  whole  country  and  king 
dom  squeezed  together  into  a  gigantic  mass  of  brick  and 
stone,  and  called  a  city. 

July  28.  .  .  .  The  London  "Daily  News"  of  July  21 
mentions  the  death  of  my  dear  old  friend  George  Ripley. 
I  hear  no  particulars  of  his  decease.  He  was  of  a  ripe  old 
age,  I  think  near  eighty.  I  had  seen  him  very  seldom  of 
late  years,  but  I  knew  him  to  be  always  the  same  kind, 
genial,  generous,  liberal  heart,  as  in  his  youth.  I  have 
felt  his  loss  deeply.  I  have  known  him  since  before  the 
"Brook  Farm"  days  —  more  than  forty  years.  I  was 
always  "  Christopher"  to  him.  He  never  changed  as  other 
friends  have  changed.  He  was  youthful  and  genial  and 
hearty,  to  the  last  time  I  saw  him,  a  little  over  a  year 
ago. 

He  is  a  loss  to  the  country.  He  was  a  sound  and  learned 
scholar,  an  accurate,  profound,  and  liberal  critic,  a  good 
writer,  a  deep  philosopher,  and  a  steady  worker.  Per 
sonally  I  owe  him  much  for  his  appreciative  notices  of 
my  works.  I  shall  long  remember  him  affectionately  — 
my  old  true-hearted  friend  —  I  shall  never  forget  you ! 

August  1.  Sunday.  Lizzie,  Carrie,  and  I  went  to  morn 
ing  services  at  the  Foundling  Hospital  Chapel  in  Guil- 
ford  Street.  The  organ  is  said  to  have  been  given  by 


312     CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 

Handel.  On  each  side  of  it,  row  upon  row,  sit  on  one  side 
the  boys,  on  the  other  the  girls,  who  are  all  in  uniform  — 
plain  dresses  and  high  white  caps.  There  was  a  great  deal 
of  singing  and  chanting  by  the  children,  assisted  by  the 
organ  and  choir.  It  was  a  very  pretty  and  striking  sight. 
The  liturgy  was  conducted  by  three  clergymen.  The  read 
ing  of  the  Scriptures  was  as  monotonous  as  any  school 
boy's.  The  sermon  by  a  very  old  man,  was  dull  and  com 
monplace. 

After  service  we  visited  the  rooms  of  the  establishment, 
saw  some  interesting  pictures,  and  manuscripts  of  Sir 
Thomas  Coram  the  founder,  and  of  Handel.  Among  these 
was  a  ticket  of  admission  in  1750  to  hear  a  new  Oratorio 
called  the  "Messiah."  Gentlemen  were  requested  to  at 
tend  " without  their  swords,  and  ladies  without  hoops." 

August  9.  By  cab  to  Waterloo  Station,  and  then  to 
Hampton  Court.  Enjoyed  much  the  old  Palace  with  its 
courtyards,  and  the  endless  succession  of  royal  rooms 
filled  with  pictures;  also  the  beautiful  grounds,  where 
we  walked  and  sat,  in  the  lovely  summer  weather;  after  a 
lunch  at  the  Mitre  Tavern,  came  back  by  the  little  steam 
boat,  which  was  crowded  and  uncomfortable  —  but  we 
enjoyed  the  scenery  of  the  Thames.  Passed  under  a 
great  many  bridges,  and  landed  quite  late  at  the  West 
minster  Bridge,  and  home  by  cab.  .  .  . 

August  10.  Walked  through  the  Strand  to  see  the  Tem 
ple —  quiet,  collegiate-looking  old  places,  shady  and  still, 
and  full  of  association  with  celebrated  English  scholars. 
Saw  Dr.  Johnson's  and  Goldsmith's  haunts,  and  the 
Mitre  Tavern,  and  the  Dining-Hall  of  the  Benchers,  a 
wonderfully  rich  old  room  of  the  Elizabethan  time,  with 
stained -glass  windows,  and  carved  wood,  and  other  sump 
tuous  architectural  adornings;  and  the  walls  hung  with 
blazoned  heraldic  panels.  Went  into  Temple  Church  — 


THIRD  VISIT  TO  EUROPE          313 

the  Chapel  of  the  Benchers  —  a  superb  Gothic  structure, 
but  gloomy  and  sepulchral.  The  dim  religious  light  of  it 
is  not  the  light  of  the  future,  but  of  the  shuddering  and 
sad-eyed  past. 

August  11.  The  first  really  warm  weather,  yesterday 
and  to-day,  though  not  oppressive,  nothing  like  the  heat 
of  our  American  Augusts. 

Mr.  Lowes  Dickinson,  a  Royal  Academician,  had 
called  while  I  was  out,  and  invited  us  to  his  house  for 
the  afternoon.  Thither  we  all  went.  Had  a  very  agree 
able  visit.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Dickinson  are  charming  people, 
friendly  and  genial.  They  have  a  beautiful  house,  every 
thing  bright  and  tasteful;  a  fine  studio,  where  we  saw 
several  good  portraits  and  water-color  drawings.  Looked 
over  a  fine  collection  of  mezzotint  engravings  of  Sir 
Joshua  Reynolds's  portraits,  had  some  tea  and  pleasant 
conversation.  Mr.  Dickinson  has  a  great  admiration  for 
William  M.  Hunt's  works. 

August  17.  Went  with  Carrie  to  the  Tower.  Visitors 
are  admitted  in  squads  of  twelve  under  the  charge  and 
discipline  of  a  picturesque  old  Beefeater,  who  takes  them 
rapidly  through,  stopping  occasionally  to  explain,  with 
a  peculiar  grammar  and  pronunciation,  the  chief  objects 
of  interest  —  the  old  armor  and  weapons,  of  which  there 
are  endless  specimens;  one  would  like  to  pause  to  inspect, 
but  no  time  is  allowed.  We  were  taken  into  the  ancient 
White  Tower,  and  up  narrow,  winding  stairs,  and  saw  the 
place  where  a  great  number  of  distinguished  persons  had 
been  confined,  and  some  of  their  carvings  and  inscrip 
tions  on  the  stone  walls.  .  .  .  We  were  conducted  back 
into  the  yard  —  where  we  waited  till  other  parties  had 
got  through,  when  we  went  up  into  another  castle  to 
see  the  jewels  and  regalia  of  royalty  .  .  .  and  at  the  top 
of  all,  the  magnificent  crown  of  Victoria,  blazing  with 


314    CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE   CRANCH 

precious  stones,  which  the  guide  declared  was  valued  at 
one  million  of  pounds  sterling. 

The  moat,  the  old  dark  arches,  the  traitor's  gate,  which 
once  opened  upon  the  water,  and  through  which  the  poli 
tical  prisoners  were  brought  into  the  Tower,  were  all  inter 
esting.  There  was  a  wicked  old  raven  walking  about  the 
Tower  Court,  of  a  most  funereal  and  uncanny  aspect,  who 
seemed  like  an  incarnation  of  the  bad  old  past,  brought 
so  forcibly  to  mind  by  all  that  we  saw  in  these  gloomy 
interiors.  He  was  the  sort  of  bird  for  such  a  place,  just 
such  a  raven  croaked  the  entrance  of  Duncan  under  the 
battlements  of  Macbeth's  Castle. 

Twenty-five  years  ago  I  visited  the  Tower,  with  Lowell 
and  Story,  but  I  don't  remember  that  there  was  then  so 
much  to  be  seen.  .  .  . 

August  18.  Called  on  the  Huttons.  Went  to  the  Na 
tional  Gallery  and  saw  the  collection  of  Turner's  water- 
colors.  They  are  by  far  the  best  things  he  did.  No  one 
can  judge  of  Turner  till  he  has  seen  his  drawings  and 
water-colors.  I  am  struck  with  his  patient  and  elaborate 
pencilings,  of  landscape  and  architecture,  full  as  much 
as  with  his  bold  washes  of  color.  His  compositions  are 
fine.  In  everything  he  does  in  the  way  of  landscape, 
buildings,  and  boats,  he  is  a  master  whose  power  and 
genius  are  unmistakable.  He  could  do  figures,  too,  if  he 
had  only  chosen  to  give  time  to  them;  animals,  too,  — 
for  I  remember  an  exquisite  colored  sketch  of  two  swans. 
I  don't  think  he  knew  how  to  manage  oils  with  the  same 
skill  he  showed  in  aquarelle.  At  least  he  was  very  eccen 
tric  in  oil-painting.  His  "Building  of  Carthage,"  how 
ever,  is  a  strong  and  noble  picture,  and  except  that  the 
sky  seems  to  have  darkened,  this  picture  more  than  rivals 
the  large  Claude  of  the  same  size  that  hangs  beside  it. 
This,  and  the  "Ulysses  defying  Polyphemus,"  and  the 


THIRD  VISIT  TO  EUROPE          315 

"Apollo  slaying  the  Python,"  seem  to  me  his  finest  oil- 
paintings.  I  also  was  charmed  with  the  water-colors  of 
Peter  De  Windt,  and  of  Cattermole,  in  another  room 
downstairs. 

To  G.  W.  C. 

This  day  of  summer,  many  a  year  ago, 

Our  young  hearts  roved  the  old  world's  charms  to  know. 

We  sailed  away  upon  an  unknown  sea; 

Our  ship  was  winged  with  hope  and  fantasy. 

The  winds  that  drove  us  on,  or  lightly  fanned 

Our  cheeks,  were  airs  that  breathed  from  fairyland. 

The  autumn  of  our  lives  has  come  at  last, 
The  dreams  of  youth  are  rose  leaves  of  the  past. 
But  though  that  joyous  time  long  since  has  gone, 
We  still,  my  faithful  friend,  are  sailing  on, 
To  shores  unknown  we  voyage  still  together, 
One  in  our  thought,  as  in  that  charmed  weather. 
Though  time  our  heads  has  bleached,  our  faces  changed, 
We,  from  our  youth,  have  never  been  estranged; 
Our  hearts  still  keep  their  early  summer  glow 
As  when  we  sailed  the  seas  long  years  ago. 
LONDON,  August  1,  1880. 

Mr.  Cranch  to  George  William  Curtis 

PARIS,  August  31,  1880. 

186  Boulevard  Haussmann. 

We  were  glad  to  get  your  letter  dated  on  the  day  of  our 
anniversary,  and  though  I  did  n't  write  you  a  letter  the 
same  day,  I  did  write  the  lines  aforesaid,  whose  chief 
merit  is  that  they  are  written  from  the  heart. 

We  enjoyed  London  much.  We  were  in  comfortable 
quarters,  and  saw  a  great  deal  that  was  exceedingly  in 
teresting,  all  of  which  you  know,  and  is  it  not  all  written 
in  the  book  of  Baedeker? 

We  left  London  about  a  week  ago,  and  after  a  few  days 
at  a  hotel  near  the  Seine,  we  took  an  apartment  for  two 
months  in  this  handsome,  new  street,  where  we  are  quite 


316    CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 

content.  We  are  on  the  4me,  a  good  way  upstairs,  and 
have  a  nicely  furnished  place,  and  from  our  balcony  we 
look  up  to  the  Arc  de  Triomphe  over  long  rows  of  young 
trees,  and  endless  processions  of  carriages.  Paris  is  rather 
deserted  as  yet,  and  the  weather  is  warm.  ...  j 

The  city  is  greatly  changed,  and  everything  is  dearer. 
The  great  Boulevards  have  ploughed  up  old  streets  and 
reconstructed  them,  so  that  one  looks  in  vain  for  many 
that  I  knew  seventeen  years  ago.  .  .  . 

The  Journal  continues:  — 

September  19.  This  morning  May  called  before  break 
fast,  and  proposed  that  I  and  "one  of  the  young  ladies" 
should  accompany  him  to  Meudon,  to  visit  his  Sieve, 
Miss  Thomas  —  so  after  breakfast  Miss  W.  and  I  called 
at  his  studio  for  him,  and  we  took  the  tramway  in  the 
Avenue  Josephine,  then  the  railway,  and  then  an  omni 
bus,  to  the  street  where  his  friends  live.  We  were  intro 
duced  to  Mrs.  Thomas,  a  Norwegian  lady,  a  widow  whose 
husband  had  been  an  Englishman,  and  her  two  daughters 
and  son.  The  eldest  daughter  is  Mr.  May's  pupil,  a 
charming  girl.  We  had  a  very  pleasant  visit,  but  the  rain 
prevented  us  from  walking  to  the  Forest.  They  live  in  a 
house  where  Moliere  once  dwelt.  There  is  a  good  deal  of 
picturesqueness  about  the  streets  of  Meudon.  May  told 
us  several  stories  of  his  experiences  during  the  siege  of 
Paris.  He  was  obliged  to  leave  his  apartment  in  the 
Terres,  as  the  enemy's  shells  were  exploding  very  near 
him,  and  in  the  middle  of  the  night  moved  to  the  centre  of 
the  city.  The  very  next  day  the  house  he  left  was  shat 
tered  to  pieces  by  the  shells.  His  concierge  had  denounced 
him  during  the  Commune  as  un  homme  suspecte,  saying 
he  had  two  or  three  apartments  and  studios  in  the  city, 
so  that  he  was  in  great  danger,  for  an  immense  number  of 


THIRD  VISIT  TO  EUROPE          317 

hommes  suspectes  were  shot  without  mercy  by  the 
Government.  He  says  the  gamins  would  run  behind  the 
walls,  and  when  a  shell  burst,  would  run  out  and  pick  up 
the  pieces  and  sell  them.  May  was  actively  engaged  (in 
the  Prussian  siege  and  in  the  siege  of  the  Commune)  in 
the  ambulance  service. 

September  20.  Spent  most  of  the  day  looking  at  apart 
ments  non  meubles.  In  the  afternoon  Lizzie  and  I  found 
one  with  an  atelier  in  the  Avenue  de  Villiers,  which  may 
suit  us,  though  it  is  very  small. 

Walked  down  to  the  Quais,  and  bought  an  old  edition 
of  Pope's  "  Works,"  eight  small  volumes  for  eight  sous  a 
volume.  Also  for  ten  sous,  a  little  pamphlet,  the  "Life  of 
Franklin,"  printed  in  the  third  year  of  the  old  Republic. 
I  bought  it  for  Huntington,  who  is  a  collector  of  every 
thing  pertaining  to  Franklin  and  Washington.  Curiously 
enough,  I  met  him,  coming  through  the  Court  of  the 
Louvre,  and  showed  it  to  him.  He  was  delighted. 

November  13.  In  the  evening  we  had  a  little  party,  con 
sisting  of  Mrs.  Lee,  of  Boston,  and  her  two  daughters, 
Lizzie  and  Hull  Adams,  Mr.  Walter  Gay,  artist,  and 
Messrs.  Longfellow  and  Stewardson,  students  of  archi 
tecture.  We  had  a  very  lively  and  pleasant  evening,  with 
some  singing,  and  fun. 

November  21.  The  weather  has  been  cold,  windy  and 
rainy,  for  I  don't  know  how  long.  When  we  were  in  Paris 
seventeen  years  ago,  I  don't  remember  any  wind.  Now 
it  has  been  blowing  tremendously,  equal  to  anything  our 
side  of  the  Atlantic.  But  we  are  very  comfortable  in  our 
little  apartment.  All  last  week,  when  not  interrupted, 
I  have  been  painting  on  my  picture  for  the  Artist's  Fund, 
which  I  shall  call  "Portia's  Villa."  I  have  an  idea  in  it, 
and  am  trying  to  get  it  to  please  me,  but  as  yet  have 
succeeded  very  imperfectly. 


318    CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 

Christmas  Day.  The  first  clear  day  for  about  a  month. 

December  26.  This  morning  I  walked  down  to  the 
Louvre,  and  there  waited  for  Lizzie  and  Carrie,  who 
came,  and  we  all  had  a  good  time  studying  the  pictures. 
The  light  was  good,  for  the  day  was  clear.  I  never  saw 
the  great  picture  of  the  "  Entombment,"  by  Titian,  look 
so  finely.  I  am  not  sure  that  it  is  not  the  greatest  picture 
in  the  gallery.  No  religious  picture  I  know  compares  with 
it.  It  is  solemn  and  tender,  and  full  of  humanity.  The 
figures  are  natural,  yet  noble.  The  face  of  the  Christ  in 
dark  shadow  is  finer  than  any  face  of  the  Saviour  I  have 
seen.  The  composition  is  admirable,  the  color  marvel 
lous.  It  dwarfs  all  the  other  masterpieces  around  it.  The 
brilliant  "Antiope"  of  Correggio,  which  hangs  near  it,  is 
a  wonderful  picture  in  its  way  —  but  it  appeals  only  to 
the  senses.  The  Titian  satisfies  sense  and  soul  alike.  Had 
the  master  never  done  any  work  but  this,  it  would  im 
mortalize  him.  There  are  many  other  fine  Titians  here, 
but  how  far  above  them  is  this! 

Mr .  Cranch  to  Mrs.  Brooks 

PARIS,  December  30,  1880. 

Your  letter  of  the  llth  came  yesterday,  and  has  given 
my  conscience  a  gentle  nudge,  reminding  me  more  em 
phatically  of  what  I  have  had  in  my  mind  for  a  long 
time;  when  owing  you  a  letter.  ...  I  believe  I  told  you 
we  had  taken  new  rooms  and  that  Lizzie  was  going  to 
furnish  them. 

The  apartment  is  very  small,  but  comfortable.  My 
little  room  is  next  to  the  kitchen,  which  is  about  the 
smallest  specimen  of  a  kitchen  that  you  ever  saw.  Only 
one  person  being  able  to  get  into  it  at  one  time.  Our 
cuisiniere  is  sole  monarch  of  it  all  day,  and  tolerates  no 
sister  or  brother  near  the  throne;  she  goes  home  at  night, 


THIRD  VISIT  TO  EUROPE          319 

so  that  then  is  the  only  time  when  I  care  to  be  in  my 
room,  —  then  I  have  perfect  quiet.  We  have  furnished 
neatly  and  with  some  taste,  and  without  great  expense, 
and  expect  to  take  some  of  our  furniture  home  with  us. 
We  hired  a  little  upright  piano,  which  is  a  great  comfort 
to  me.  I  spend  most  of  the  day  in  our  atelier,  which  is 
under  the  skylight  on  the  5th  Stage,  where  I  have  painted 
a  good  deal.  I  have  lately  sent  to  New  York  my  Artist's 
Fund  contribution,  a  picture  I  call  "Portia's  Villa."  I 
have  no  orders,  but  I  am  painting  for  the  fun  of  it,  and 
enjoy  my  work  just  as  much  as  I  ever  did.  Carrie  has 
been  going  every  day  to  Carolus  Duran's  class  of  young 
ladies.  It  is  a  portrait  class,  and  she  works  there  from 
eight  to  one;  after  which  she  sometimes  goes  to  the 
Louvre  to  copy.  So  we  get  up  by  candlelight,  for  these 
are  the  short  days  of  the  year.  It  is  an  absurd  hour, 
eight  o'clock  of  a  winter  morning,  to  begin  work,  for  it 
takes  her  at  least  half  an  hour  to  get  to  the  class. 
M.  Duran  comes  twice  a  week,  and  M.  Henner  twice. 
Their  criticism  has  been  useful,  Carrie  thinks,  but  she  will 
not  continue  another  month.  Carrie  thinks  the  advan 
tages  for  art  in  New  York  are  better  than  here.  But  then 
there  is  no  Louvre  in  New  York. 

We  have  had  no  real  winter  yet,  but  for  the  month  we 
have  had  incessant  rains.  .  .  .  This  is  a  new  quarter,  not 
far  from  the  Pare  Monceau,  and  a  quarter  where  there  are 
many  distinguished  artists.  M.  Munkacsy's  studio  is 
quite  near  us,  and  we  went  one  day  to  see  it  and  him, 
and  his  pictures.  And  a  princely  studio  it  is.  But  he  is 
rich,  and  married  a  Princess,  they  say,  though  he  began 
life  as  a  cabinetmaker.  Sarah  Bernhardt's  hotel  is  not  far 
from  us  in  this  avenue.  And  we  are  reading  a  story 
which  comes  out  once  every  day  in  the  "Temps,"  the 
scene  of  which  is  an  atelier  in  the  Avenue  de  Villiers.  So 


320    CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 

you  see  the  neighborhood  is  distingue,  but  it  is  somewhat 
remote  from  the  most  of  the  comforts  enjoyed  by  those 
living  in  the  thickest  settled  parts  of  Paris. 

There  is  an  enormous  amount  of  building  going  on 
near  us.  Whole  streets  of  new  and  expensive  houses.  One 
would  think  Paris  one  of  the  richest  cities  in  Europe. 

We  don't  see  many  of  the  Americans  here.  Our  old 
friends  Huntington  and  May  are  still  in  their  old  quarters, 
Babcock  is  living  at  Barbizon,  but  has  lately  come  to 
Paris.  Walter  Gay,  a  young  artist  of  talent,  is  near  us. 
All  these  have  dined  with  us  occasionally.  A  Miss  Lesley, 
of  Philadelphia,  is  in  Carrie's  class.  Our  cousins,  Lizzie 
Adams  and  Hull,  have  been  here,  and  we  saw  them  often, 
but  they  have  gone  to  Nice.  There  is  a  young  Mr.  Long 
fellow,  a  student  of  architecture,  a  very  agreeable  and 
clever  young  man,  who  has  also  dined  with  us,  and  a 
companion  of  his,  young  Stewardson,  also  studying 
architecture,  and  formerly  a  college  chum  of  Heyliger 
De  Windt.  Mr.  Dana,  the  artist,  has  returned  from 
England;  he  was  one  of  our  friends  when  we  were  here 
before. 

Mr.  Huntington  keeps  us  supplied  with  the  "Daily 
Tribune,"  so  we  get  all  the  American  news.  And  the 
"  Temps  "  —  a  capital  paper  —  keeps  us  informed  of  what 
is  going  on  in  Paris  and  in  England.  I  was  much  pleased 
to  read  in  it  the  other  day  an  excellent  and  very  appre 
ciative  article  on  George  Eliot.  She  was  a  great  genius, 
and  there  is  no  English  novelist  who  takes  her  place. 

.    From  Mr.  C  ranch's  Journal:  — 

December  31.  The  old  year  is  almost  gone.  He  has  only 
one  more  hour  to  live  by  my  watch.  I  am  sitting  alone  by 
the  ruins  of  my  evening  fire.  I  have  just  been  reading  a 
capital  article  in  the  "Temps"  by  Edward  Scherer  on 


THIRD  VISIT  TO  EUROPE 

Lord  Beaconsfield's  novel "  Endymion."  He  is  the  author 
of  the  article  on  George  Eliot  I  spoke  of.  The  criticism  is 
very  profound  and  just.  It  is  so  good  that  I  shall  preserve 
it.  "Le  mot  qui  a  Vair  d'une  idee"  is  one  of  his  good  say 
ings,  applied  to  Beaconsfield. 

January  30, 1881.  Received  a  note  from  Madame 
Laugel  enclosing  a  ticket  to  a  Conservatoire  Concert  this 
afternoon.  Got  ready  in  haste  to  go  and  was  richly  re 
warded  for  doing  so.  First  came  Mendelssohn's  magni 
ficent  Symphony  in  A  Major,  wonderfully  performed, 
and  quite  enthusiastically  received.  Second,  fragments 
from  Spontini's  Opera  (I  presume)  of  "Fernando 
Cortez,"  by  solo  singers  and  chorus  —  very  striking 
—  consisting  of  introductory  choruses;  Alvar  and  the 
Spanish  prisoners;  Mexican  priests  and  sacrificers;  reci 
tative  of  the  Grand  Priest;  chorus  and  barbaric  dances; 
march  of  the  Mexicans  and  general  chorus.  Third,  Con 
certo  in  A  Minor  for  piano  and  orchestra,  by  Schu 
mann,  the  piano  part  exquisitely  played  by  a  little  lady, 
Madame  Viquier.  Several  passages  called  forth  sup 
pressed  bursts  of  feeling  from  some  of  the  audience.  It 
seemed  to  me  one  of  Schumann's  masterpieces.  Fourth, 
trio  and  chorus  of  the  Parques  (Hippolyte  and  Aricie) ,  by 
Rameau.  And  lastly  Beethoven's  "Leonore"  Overture. 

I  enjoyed  every  note  of  the  music.  On  my  left  was  a 
little  youngish  French  lady,  who  fidgeted  a  good  deal 
and  used  her  lorgnette  in  the  midst  of  the  finest  passages, 
and  on  the  whole  seemed  bored,  or  at  least  indifferent, 
and  yet,  as  if  conscious  that  she  was  showing  it,  would 
suddenly  turn  towards  the  orchestra,  and  make  move 
ments  of  the  body  and  head,  as  if  she  were  intensely  en 
joying  the  music.  How  I  wished  Carrie  had  been  there  in 
her  place,  what  a  pleasure  it  would  have  been  to  both  of 
us,  to  hear  such  glorious  music  together.  On  my  right  sat 


CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 

a  little  old  lady,  who  let  her  head  drop,  and  took  several 
good  naps.  I  suppose  she  enjoyed  the  concert,  in  her  way. 
At  any  rate,  the  music  was  soothing  to  her,  and  she  made 
no  pretense  of  ranking  herself  with  the  connoisseurs.  She 
could  n't  help  being  sleepy.  But  the  young  woman  on  my 
left,  if  the  music  bored  her,  ought  to  have  come  pre 
pared  to  be  bored,  and  showed  very  bad  taste  in  twisting 
herself  about  so  with  her  lorgnette  in  the  midst  of  the 
performance. 

February  13.  M.  Laugel  was  so  kind  as  to  send  me  a 
ticket  for  a  box  in  the  Theatre  Frangais  for  this  evening's 
representation  —  five  seats  in  the  box.  We  invited  Mr. 
Walter  Gay  to  tea  and  to  go  with  us.  After  tea  we  took  a 
carriage  and  went.  The  box  was  a  quiet,  shady  little 
nook,  exacting  no  dress,  and  close  to  the  stage  on  the  rez- 
de-chaussee.  The  first  piece  represented  was  "Grin- 
goire,"  a  very  clever  and  interesting  story  of  the  time  of 
Louis  XI.  The  acting  was  all  admirable.  Coquelin,  who 
took  the  part  of  Gringoire,  was  as  good  as  could  be.  The 
whole  was  complete  in  one  act. 

Then  came  the  play  of  "Jean  Baudry,"  by  Vacquerie,  in 
four  acts,  I  believe,  the  part  of  Baudry  by  Got.  The  plot 
was  extremely  interesting,  and  the  acting  as  near  per 
fection  as  anything  I  ever  saw. 

February  %4.  Dined  at  the  Pinchots',  and  went  with 
Mrs.  Pinchot  (Lizzie,  Carrie  and  I)  to  the  Opera  Comique. 
Heard  "Les  Contes  de  Hoffmann,"  Offenbach's  posthu 
mous  work.  It  was  very  brilliant,  and  in  parts  beautiful 
music,  with  admirable  orchestration  —  quite  a  new 
rendition  of  Offenbach's  genius. 

February  25.  Received  note  from  John  Holmes  and 
went  down  to  see  him  at  the  Hotel  France  et  Lorraine, 
Rue  Beaune,  the  same  we  stopped  at  on  arriving  in  Paris. 
Found  him  lame  and  disabled  from  a  fall. 


THIRD  VISIT  TO  EUROPE          323 

February  26.  Packing  up  to  go  to  Italy.  Lizzie  and 
Carrie  bought  three  of  Cook's  Tourist  Tickets  which  will 
take  us  to  Turin,  Genoa,  Pisa,  and  down  to  Rome,  thence 
to  Florence  and  Venice,  available  for  sixty  days  from 
Turin. 

Went  down  to  see  John  Holmes,  who  is  waiting  to  get 
well,  when  he  intends  going  to  England.  He  has  been 
suffering  also  from  his  eyes.  He  must  be  terribly  lonely, 
in  that  hotel,  knowing  no  one  here. 

March  39  1881.  We  left  Paris  February  28.  Dined  at 
Dijon.  Entered  the  Mont  Cenis  Tunnel  about  3  A.M. 
Fine  mountan  scenery,  snow  on  the  mountains.  Arrived 
at  Turin  somewhere  about  nine,  March  1.  Had  an  awful 
time  at  station  there,  regulating  tickets  and  baggage. 
Started  again  at  half -past  nine.  Ugly  landscape  —  a 
flat  country  with  endless  miles  on  miles  of  stumpy  trees, 


apparently  a  kind  of  poplar,  truncated  with  twigs  sprout 
ing,  some  of  them  looking  like  caterpillars  and  centipedes 
on  end. 

The  French  landscape  with  its  eternal  broomstick 
poplars  was  ugly  enough,  but  this  was  dismal.  Something 
uncanny  and  nightmarish  about  these  hideous  stumps. 

But  the  scenery  began  to  be  fine  as  we  drew  nearer  to 
Genoa.  Fine  mountain  views  right  and  left,  and  pictur 
esque  old  buildings.  After  a  day's  stay  in  Genoa,  reached 
Rome  about  noon,  March  3. 


324    CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 

March  4.  We  went  to  the  Vatican,  Sistine  Chapel,  and 
St.  Peter's.  The  frescoes  of  Raphael  and  of  Michael 
Angelo  appear  finer  than  ever.  Raphael's  frescoes  are 
better  in  color  than  his  oil-paintings.  The  Michael  An- 
gelos  on  the  ceiling  of  the  Sistine  are  wonderful.  Yet  how 
much  they  lose  in  that  dim,  imperfect  light.  This  great 
master  must  have  known,  when  he  was  painting  these  glo 
rious  pictures,  that  they  would  never  be  seen  up  there  as 
they  should  be  seen.  I  can't  help  thinking  that,  when  he 
did  these  works  at  the  command  of  Pope  Julius  II,  he 
knew  and  felt  how  much  of  their  power  and  beauty  would 
be  lost.  No  wonder  he  rebelled  against  the  task.  But 
what  a  treasure  the  Pope  has  through  him  left  to  the 
ages! 

March  5.  We  went  to  the  Rospigliosi,  the  Capitol, 
Forum,  Coliseum,  San  Pietro  in  Vinculo,  and  in  the 
afternoon  visited  Story's  studio.  Last  night  I  called  on 
the  Story s  at  the  Barberini,  and  was  most  cordially  re 
ceived  by  Story,  and  found  there  Edith  and  her  hus 
band. 

The  afternoon  of  the  day  we  arrived,  I  went  up  on  the 
Pincio.  The  place  is  more  beautiful  than  ever,  and  there 
was  a  band  of  music,  and  the  same  crowds  of  fashionable 
loungers,  the  Same  rolling-by  of  grand  carriages,  the  same 
splendidly  uniformed  officers,  and  contadini  and  nurses 
and  children,  and  priests,  etc.,  as  in  the  years  long  gone 
by.  And  as  the  music  went  on,  and  the  people  prom 
enaded  up  and  down  under  the  green  palms  and  pines,  the 
vague  memories  of  the  old  days  came  over  me  with  a 
saddening  sweep.  Such  impressions  seem  more  painful 
than  pleasant.  I  don't  much  like  these  ghosts  of  the 
buried  past. 

And  wherever  I  go  in  Rome  these  same  vague  memories 
are  awakened.  It  is  better  they  should  sleep. 


THIRD  VISIT  TO  EUROPE  325 

Sunday ',  March  6.  We  went  up  on  the  Pincio,  and  sat 
in  the  sunshine,  among  the  green  ilexes,  and  heard  the 
birds  sing.  In  the  afternoon  Carrie  and  I  went  into  the 
garden  of  the  Accademia,  the  old  Medici  Villa,  and  then 
walked  in  the  grounds  of  the  Villa  Borghese,  and  gathered 
purple  anemones. 

Monday,  March  7.  We  went  to  see  the  Museum  of 
the  Vatican  —  the  statues. 

March  8.  Left  Rome  at  10.50.  Found  the  railway  to 
Florence  much  better  than  any  Italian  track  we  have 
gone  over.  Interesting  scenery  all  the  way.  Arrived  in 
Florence  at  nearly  seven  o'clock. 

March  10.  Boott  called,  and  took  me  to  the  American 
Consul,  to  get  a  request  for  a  permit  for  the  galleries,  for 
Carrie  and  for  me  —  as  American  artists.  Looked  at  the 
Loggia  di  Lanzi,  and  the  statues,  and  the  old  Medici 
Palace,  and  remembered  how  I  carried  George  —  little 
Georgey,  who  was  just  beginning  to  talk,  and  who  under 
stood  only  Italian  —  to  see  the  marble  lions,  and  how  he 
was  afraid  to  touch  them,  when  I  lifted  him  up  near  them, 
and  he  said,  "son  vivente?  "  till  I  assured  him  they  were 
"  di  sasso."  That  was  thirty-two  years  ago.  Ah  how  sad 
it  made  me  to  recall  it!  ... 

March  12.  In  the  afternoon  went  to  see  the  studio  of 
Miss  Boott,  and  of  Mr.  Duveneck  —  Miss  Boott  has  ad 
vanced  greatly  under  his  instruction.  Duveneck's  work 
was  very  brilliant.  There  were  other  pupils  of  Duveneck 
also,  there,  whose  work  was  good. 

March  13.  Began  an  oil  sketch  looking  out  across  the 
Arno.  Boott  called,  and  proposed  going  to  Bellosguardo 
with  us.  At  3.30  took  a  carriage  with  Lizzie  and  Carrie  to 
Bellosguardo  —  but  Carrie  and  I  got  out  at  the  Porta 
Romana,  waited  for  Boott  and  walked  up  the  hill  with 
him.  Beautiful  villa  and  enchanting  view.  .  .  .  Rode  back 


326    CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 

in  the  carriage,  and  Carrie  and  I  went  into  the  Boboli 
Garden. 

March  14-  Birthday  of  the  King  of  Italy.  Great  firing 
of  cannon  and  ringing  of  bells.  Parade  of  soldiers.  The 
festivities  are  interrupted  by  the  tragic  news  of  the  assas 
sination  of  the  Emperor  of  Russia.  Those  crazy  Nihilists 
have  at  last  accomplished  their  purpose.  But  what  can 
they  gain  by  it?  Could  there  be  a  worse  thing  for  their 
cause? 

Carrie  and  I  went  to  see  some  of  the  churches,  after 
finding  the  Uffizi  Gallery  closed.  In  the  evening  we  all 
went  to  a  little  party  at  Boott's  —  where  we  met  Mr. 
Ball,  the  sculptor,  his  wife,  and  Miss  Anna  Dixwell,  .  .  . 
and  half  a  dozen  young  art  students.  Had  some  good 
music  from  Mr.  Ritter's  violin  with  Lizzie  Boott's  ac 
companiment  and  some  comic  songs.  .  .  .  Enjoyed  our 
evening  very  much. 

March  19.  The  weather  has  been  perfectly  cloudless, 
till  to-day  —  and  cold.  I  have  been  in  the  Uffizi  and  the 
Pitti  and  the  Boboli  Gardens,  and  taken  a  long  walk  in 
the  Cascine,  and  picked  there  a  few  wild  flowers.  And 
yesterday  we  went  to  the  San  Lorenzo  and  the  Medici 
Chapel  to  see  the  Michael  Angelos,  and  in  the  afternoon 
Carrie  and  I  called  at  Mr.  Ball's  studio,  and  were  very 
much  pleased  with  him  and  his  works.  I  had  known  noth 
ing  of  his  work  except  the  equestrian  statue  of  Washing 
ton  in  Boston,  which  always  impresses  me  as  remarkably 
good.  Here  we  saw  a  number  of  works  of  a  high  order,  and 
I  don't  see  why  he  should  n't  rank  among  the  first  of  the 
American  sculptors.  His  studio  and  house  are  together  in 
a  pleasant  villa  overlooking  the  city,  by  the  Poggio  Im- 
periale.  Boott  called  while  we  were  there,  and  we  walked 
up  the  hill  by  the  Viale,  and  around  to  San  Miniato. 
The  views  of  the  mountains  and  city  were  perfect. 


FRANCIS  BOOTT 


THIRD  VISIT  TO  EUROPE          327 

March  19.  In  the  afternoon  went  to  a  large  reception 
at  Mr.  Ball's.  There  was  music,  violin  and  piano,  and 
some  good  singing.  My  National  Anthem  to  Boott's 
music  was  well  sung  by  eight  voices. 

March  21.  In  the  evening  called  for  Boott  and  went  to 
the  Teatro  Nuovo  with  him.  The  play  was  A.  Dumas 
fils9  "Princess  of  Bagdad."  I  understood  very  little 
of  it,  but  it  was  splendidly  acted.  The  star  of  the  piece 
was  Signora  Tessero-Guidone  —  a  remarkable  actress  — 
Boott  thinks  she  is  as  good  as  Ristori,  and  I  don't  know 
that  he  is  not  right.  Nothing  could  be  finer  than  her  ex 
pressions  of  passion  and  feeling,  and  her  variety  —  her 
range  —  was  wonderful.  All  the  acting  was  remarkably 
good.  I  never  saw  towering  rage  so  absolutely  rendered 
as  it  was  by  one  of  the  actors,  whose  name  is  given  as 
Rosaspina. 

March  26.  We  have  changed  our  quarters  to  the  Casa 
Guidi,  No.  9  Piazza,  San  Felice.  A  much  more  cheerful 
place;  windows  looking  to  the  east  and  on  the  street.  It 
is  the  house  where  the  Brownings  were;  a  marble  inscrip 
tion  over  the  front  door  commemorates  it  as  the  house 
where  Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning  lived  and  died  — 
placed  there  by  the  city  of  Florence. 

Venice,  April  5.  Venice  seems  to  me  even  more  won 
derful  for  its  picturesqueness  than  it  did  seventeen  years 
ago.  There  is  nothing  that  is  not  picturesque  here.  I 
should  like  to  remain  six  months,  and  spend  my  time  in 
sketching.  This  afternoon  began  a  sketch  of  the  Salute 
and  Dogana  from  my  window  —  the  same  old  subject 
I've  painted  so  often,  but  it  is  good  to  do  it  once  more 
from  the  actual  scene.  The  great  difficulty  in  Venice  is  to 
know  what  to  paint  —  where  all  outdoors  is  picture. 

April  10.  We  have  taken  a  stately  apartment  in  the 
Palazzo  Foscolo,  on  the  Grand  Canal.  We  have  four  large 


328     CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 

rooms  about  seventeen  feet  high  —  two  of  them  with 
heavy  stone  balconies  overhanging  the  Canal  —  from 
which  we  have  a  fine  view  of  the  Salute,  and  Dogana,  on 
our  left,  and  palaces  on  palaces  extending  as  far  as  we 
can  see  to  the  right.  Gondolas  and  other  boats  are  pass 
ing  all  the  time.  We  take  the  rooms  by  the  week.  The 
proprietors  are  two  elderly  ladies,  who  call  themselves 
"les  nobles  Foscolo,"  and  descend  from  one  of  the  doges. 
In  a  large  bare  anteroom  hang  portraits  of  two  of  their 
ancestors,  veritable  magnificoes,  one  of  them  with  the 
name  "Fusculus,"  and  a  string  of  titles  in  Latin.  .  .  . 
There  are  two  entrances  below,  one  the  water-gate, 
which  seems  never  to  be  used,  and  the  other  from  the 
Calle  Pisani,  a  narrow  alley  leading  down  to  the  Canal. 
On  the  outside  of  the  front  door  is  an  immense  and  pic 
turesque  knocker,  which  no  one  uses,  and  on  the  right 
two  old  iron  bell-handles.  The  old  lady  is  very  particular 
about  having  the  front  door  bolted  at  night,  and  the  bolt 
is  a  curiosity  for  its  huge  mediaeval  size.  The  two  sisters 
go  to  bed  at  eight  o'clock,  and  seem  to  think  no  visitor 
ought  to  ring  the  bell  after  that  hour. 

The  other  evening  our  friend  Henry  James,  Jr.,  called 
about  nine,  and  had  difficulty  about  getting  in.  He  had 
to  stand  in  the  rain  outside  and  ring,  and  hold  a  colloquy 
with  the  servant,  from  above,  who  insisted  we  were  not  in 
—  he  finally  got  in  and  upstairs,  as  far  as  our  outer  door, 
and  knocked  and  rang,  but  we  did  not  hear,  and  knew 
nothing  of  his  visit  till  we  found  his  card  in  the  door  next 
morning. 

April  17.  Easter  Sunday.  We  all  went  to  the  Church  of 
San  Marco,  where  there  was  quite  a  crowd,  and  heard 
some  pretty  good  operatic  music.  This  was  followed  by  a 
sermon  by  a  splendidly  robed  and  rnitred  dignitary  who 
seems  to  have  been  a  bishop,  but  there  was  too  much  re- 


THIRD   VISIT  TO  EUROPE          329 

verberation  to  hear  more  than  a  few  words.  The  beauty 
of  this  interior  of  San  Marco's  is  indescribable.  It  seems 
to  me  one  of  the  wonders  of  the  world.  It  is  an  endless 
delight  to  gaze  about  at  the  shadowy  mysterious  arches, 
the  antique  altars  and  statues  and  picturesque  nooks; 
the  gold  and  mosaics  of  the  domes,  everything  you  see 
arranged  in  picture  shape.  This  is  especially  so  when  the 
sunshine  comes  in  through  a  door,  or  window,  and 
touches  on  its  high  lights.  .  .  . 

April  20.  Alexander  W.  Thayer  arrived  from  Trieste 
before  breakfast.  He  takes  a  room  in  our  Palazzo.  .  .  . 

April  25.  Left  Venice  —  Thayer  going  with  us  —  for 
Milan.  As  we  got  into  our  gondola,  the  Foscolo  sisters 
bade  us  a  tender  adieu.  The  weather  was  fine,  the  first 
good  day  for  some  time.  Beautiful  mountain  scenery  on 
the  way  to  Milan.  .  .  . 

April  26.  Carrie,  Thayer,  and  I  went  to  the  top  of  the 
Cathedral.  The  architecture  is  beautiful  beyond  descrip 
tion  —  a  vast  white  marble  frost-work  of  soaring  pin 
nacles  all  covered  with  statues  and  elaborate  ornamental 
carvings,  shooting  into  the  sky  in  every  direction,  and  all 
the  work  upon  them  finished  so  as  to  bear  the  minutest 
inspection  —  and  all  looking  as  if  they  had  crystallized 
instead  of  being  built  up  slowly  and  painfully  in  the 
course  of  centuries.  We  ascended  by  narrow  winding 
steps  to  the  topmost  spire,  a  dizzy  height.  The  view  in 
every  direction  is  wonderful !  .  .  . 

April  27.  We  all  went  to  see  the  "Cenacolo,"  the 
"Last  Supper"  of  Leonardo,  in  the  ancient  refectory  of 
the  Santa  Maria  delle  Grazie.  It  is  very  impressive,  and 
one  cannot  judge  of  it  well  from  the  engravings  and 
copies.  It  is  very  much  obliterated,  but  in  better  condi 
tion  than  I  expected  to  see  it. 

We  went  into  the  Cathedral,  and  ascended  to  the  very 


330    CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 

top.  The  view  of  the  long  line  of  snow-topped  Alps  was 
wonderfully  fine  —  on  the  day  before  it  was  misty  and 
they  were  hidden.  In  the  afternoon  we  left  for  Paris, 
Thayer  remaining. 

Mayl.  Varnishing  day  at  the  Salon.  There  was  a  great 
crowd;  and  over  thirty  rooms  full  of  pictures.  We 
stayed  several  hours,  and  I  believe  we  saw  all  the  rooms. 
A  great  number  of  clever  pictures  —  but  none  of  them 
struck  me  as  great  pictures,  except  in  size.  The  same 
kinds  of  subject  are  repeated  over  and  over,  as  they 
used  to  be  when  I  was  here  before.  There  are  a  great  many 
strong  and  clever  painters  represented,  but  none  that 
compare  with  that  time.  Then  we  had  Troyon,  Dela 
croix,  Descamps,  Diaz,  Ziem,  Millet,  Rousseau,  Dau- 
bigny,  and  many  others  of  less  note,  but  full  as  good  as 
those  here  represented.  There  is  plenty  of  skill  and  chic, 
and  technique,  but  few  new  ideas.  And  we  have  been  in 
Italy  among  the  glorious  old  masters,  which  obscures 
these  modern  Frenchmen.  But  in  so  large  an  exhibi 
tion,  it  is  impossible,  on  a  first  visit,  to  discriminate  and 
criticise  with  any  exactness.  .  .  . 

May  11.  Wrote  to  Frank  Boott:  "What  a  curious 
thing,  by  the  way,  this  matter  of  popularity  is  —  almost 
a  thing  of  accident  often.  You  happen  to  hit  the  mark  the 
popular  eye  has  fixed  its  gaze  upon,  or  you  don't  happen 
—  and  then  as  the  popular  eye  is  turned  in  a  certain 
direction,  you  are  believed  to  go  on  hitting  the  mark  or 
not  hitting  it.  But  in  reality  what  does  the  public  really 
know  about  us?  If  its  big  mechanical  lens  of  an  eye  hap 
pens  to  be  turned  in  another  direction,  we  may  go  on 
shooting  and  hitting  all  our  lives,  and  the  sapient  news 
papers  and  reviews  seem  to  know  nothing  about  it." 

June  IJf.  Went  a  second  time  to  see  Munkacsy's 
"  Christ  before  Pilate."  It  is  a  great  picture,  perhaps  the 


THIRD  VISIT  TO  EUROPE          331 

greatest  picture  of  the  day.  It  will  rank  higher  than 
Couture's  "  Decadence."  All  Paris  seems  to  have  been 
to  see  it.  The  treatment  is  entirely  fresh  and  uncon 
ventional,  in  subject,  composition,  color,  and  general 
technique.  The  latter  quality  is  wonderful.  The  picture 
seizes  one  with  a  powerful  grasp ;  it  is  vivid  with  life  and 
expression.  The  Christ  is  a  man  of  sorrows  and  ac 
quainted  with  grief,  but  intense,  self-centred,  firm.  Pilate 
sits  on  the  right  on  his  Roman  throne,  in  white,  his  hair 
cut  close,  his  face  expressing  intense  thought  and  delib 
eration  —  a  group  of  turbaned  Pharisees  about  him,  and 
close  to  him  stands  the  High  Priest  who  points  to  Christ, 
appealing  in  a  loud  voice  to  Pilate  —  "Let  him  be  cruci 
fied!"  And  among  the  mob,  at  the  other  end  of  the  pic 
ture,  a  vile  ruffian  throws  up  his  bare  arms  and  screams, 
"Let  him  be  crucified!"  Near  the  Saviour  sits  an  old 
man,  turbaned  and  robed,  with  his  cruel  face  half  averted, 
and  here  and  there  are  seen  other  priests  and  elders  de 
liberating  or  talking  together.  Prom  the  crowd  in  the 
background  a  man  rises  pointing  out  Barabbas  —  who 
is  peering  around  at  the  face  of  Christ.  A  centurion  with 
his  back  to  the  spectator,  holds  his  long  spear  across  the 
crowd  to  keep  them  from  pressing  too  near.  The  archi 
tecture  of  the  building  is  rich  and  massive,  and  painted 
with  wonderful  solidity.  The  color  of  the  picture  is  fine 
-  low  in  tone  and  harmonious,  full  of  warm  grayish 
browns  and  purplish  darks  —  a  style  peculiar  to  Mr. 
Munkacsy  —  varied  with  strong  blues,  and  all  full  of 
light.  The  figures  have  the  relief  of  nature  itself.  Seen  in 
a  mirror  in  the  next  room,  the  picture  startles  you  with 
its  intense  realism. 

July  14-  The  great  National  Fete.  Miss  Anna 
Dixwell  lunched  and  dined  with  us,  and  after  dinner  she, 
Carrie  and  I  took  a  carriage  as  far  as  the  Porte  Maillot, 


332    CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 

beyond  which  carriages  were  not  allowed,  and  walked  in 
the  Bois  de  Boulogne  to  the  Lake,  where  the  Fete  Veni- 
tienne,  and  the  fireworks  were  to  be  seen.  The  crowd 
was  immense.  The  trees  were  hung  with  large  orange- 
colored  lanterns.  The  lake  fringed  around  with  foot 
lights.  A  great  golden  gate  of  light  blazed  in  the  distance, 
reflected  in  the  water.  The  crowd  occupied  every  inch  of 
ground  near  the  water.  We  walked  on  till  we  reached  the 
pine  grove  on  the  left,  and  spread  our  camp-stools.  At 
nine  o'clock  the  feux  (Tartifice  began,  rockets,  fiery  ser 
pents,  intense  red,  green,  and  white  fires,  blazing  on  the 
water  and  bursting  in  the  air.  It  was  a  magnificent 
show.  Splendidly  illuminated,  boats  passed  to  and  fro 
continually,  adding  greatly  to  the  fairy-like  splendor. 
The  crowd  was  very  orderly.  About  half-past  ten  we 
left,  and  walked  all  the  way  back  —  no  carriages  were 
anywhere  allowed.  The  whole  road  for  miles  was  splen 
didly  illuminated  with  lamps  and  colored  lanterns.  This 
illumination  and  fireworks  were  more  extensive  and 
splendid  than  anything  I  ever  saw,  and  yet  we  saw  only 
a  portion  of  the  whole.  .  .  . 

To  G.  W.  C. 

August  1, 1846 

The  day,  so  long  remembered,  comes  again. 
The  years  have  vanished.   On  the  vessel's  deck 
We  stand  and  wave  adieux,  until  a  speck 
Our  ship  appears  to  friends  whose  eyes  would  fain 
Follow  our  voyage  o'er  the  unknown  main. 
Shadows  of  sails  and  masts  and  rigging  fleck 
The  sunlit  ship.  The  captain's  call  and  beck 
Hurry  the  cheery  sailors  as  they  strain 
The  windy  sheets;  while  we  in  careless  mood 
Gaze  on  the  silver  clouds  and  azure  sea, 
Filled  with  old  ocean's  novel  solitude, 
And  dreams  of  that  new  life  of  Italy, 
The  golden  fleece  for  which  we  sailed  away, 
Whose  splendor  freshens  this  memorial  day. 
PARIS,  August  1, 1881. 


THIRD  VISIT  TO  EUROPE          333 

December.  Dupont  came  and  took  dinner  with  us,  and 
passed  the  evening,  interesting  us  a  good  deal  with  his 
conversation  and  his  songs.  Though  talking  nothing  but 
French,  he  seems  totally  unlike  any  Frenchman  I  ever 
knew.  He  is  large  and  sound  and  liberal  in  his  ideas  — 
full  of  bright  ideas  —  artistic,  imaginative,  refined,  and 
withal  extremely  sympathetic.  I  always  regret  that  I 
can't  express  myself  in  French  as  I  wish  I  could,  in  talking 
with  him.  He  sung  us  some  of  the  old  songs  he  used  to 
sing  nearly  twenty  years  ago  when  we  were  here.  Such  a 
man  as  he  ought  to  learn  English  and  talk  with  us  in 
English,  but  though  he  knows  a  little,  he  never  will  talk  it. 

He  is  fond  of  talking  about  himself,  and  the  things  he 
has  done  in  painting,  and  poetry,  and  politics  —  but  in 
such  a  way  that  he  does  not  impress  me  as  a  man  un 
usually  vain  —  only  as  of  one  conscious  of  talent  and 
expressing  his  feeling  frankly  and  without  reserve.  .  .  . 

Mr.  Cranch  to  his  brother  Edward 

PARIS,  January  11,  1882. 

...  I  have  been  re-reading  your  letter,  and  pondering 
over  your  vision.  I  don 't  suppose  you  take  it  any  more 
au  serieux  than  I  do;  I  don't  think  you  have  any  more 
superstition  than  I  have;  it  was  singular  certainly.  But 
how  curious  all  dreaming  is!  The  only  thing  about 
dreams  that  seems  tangible  and  sure,  is,  to  me,  that  they 
all  spring  out  of  our  reminiscences,  and  so  belong  to  the 
past,  and  not  the  future.  They  are  broken  and  distorted 
reflections  of  images  that  have  had  a  place  in  the  mind. 
The  oddness  is  the  way  they  surprise  us  sometimes,  and 
the  queer  complications  and  exaggerations;  and  queerer 
and  more  wonderful  than  all,  the  characteristic  things 
that  are  said  by  the  people  we  know.  Another  curious 
thing  in  dreams,  is  the  mixing  up  of  people;  one  even  be- 


334    CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 

ing  quite  intimate  with  some  one,  whom,  when  we  wake, 
we  find  we  never  knew  at  all.  Not  long  since  I  tried  to  put 
into  verse  this  latter  phase  of  dream-life,  and  will  give  it 
to  you. 

I  have  met  one  in  the  land  of  sleep 

Who  seemed  a  friend  long  known  and  true, 

But  when  awake  from  visions  deep, 
None  such  I  ever  knew. 

Yet  one  there  was  in  life's  young  morn, 
Loved  me,  I  thought,  as  I  loved  him. 

Slow  from  that  trance  I  woke  forlorn, 
To  find  his  love  grown  dim. 

He  by  whose  side  in  dreams  I  ranged, 
Unknown  by  name,  my  friend  still  seems. 

While  he  I  knew  so  well,  has  changed. 
So  both  were  only  dreams. 

But  this  is  digressing.  I  meant  to  offer  myself  as  a 
Joseph  to  interpret  your  vision.  For  instance,  the  tomb 
and  date  may  mean  that  by  that  time  you  will  have 
buried  your  last  law  documents,  and  entered  upon  your 
new  profession  fully  and  entirely,  without  any  let  and 
hindrance;  the  sunny  hills  and  the  sheep  beyond  are 
symbols  of  a  good  time  coming  for  you  in  your  declining 
years.  The  river  to  be  crossed,  you  yourself  allow  to  have 
been  an  after  thought.  That  is  beyond  the  hills. 

We  all  went  to  the  Theatre  Frangais  the  other  night, 
with  two  young  artist  friends.  We  saw  "Le  Monde  ou 
Ton  s'ennuie,"  and  a  short  piece  preceding  it,  called  "La 
Cigale  chez  les  fourmis."  The  acting  was  admirable,  as  it 
always  is  at  the  Frangais,  but  the  rapidity  of  the  talk  was 
too  much  for  me.  Things  were  constantly  said  which 
made  the  audience  laugh ;  to  me  they  were  serious  things 
because  I  could  n't  understand  them.  The  plot  contin 
ually  mystified  me.  But  the  others  enjoyed  it.  To  me  this 
theatre  was  the  world  where  one  is  bored!  I  had  better 


THIRD  VISIT  TO  EUROPE          335 

have  stayed  at  home  and  saved  eight  francs.  I  can 
read  French  easily  enough  and  understand  it  when  dis 
tinctly  spoken,  if  I  am  near  enough  to  the  speaker;  that 
is,  I  don't  lose  much  of  it.  But  I  have  so  little  prac 
tice  in  hearing  it,  that  I  grow  rusty,  and  doubt  if  I  can 
follow  the  lingo  any  better  than  I  could  twenty  years  ago. 

The  Journal  goes  on:  — 
January  14.  .  .  . 

Unseen,  unknown,  and  sundered  long, 
Till  Age  hath  touched  us  with  his  rust, 

Deep  in  our  hearts,  alive  and  strong, 
Youth  springs  immortal  from  the  dust. 

Our  thoughts  like  bees  in  secret  hives 
Hoard  up  their  wealth,  unshared,  untold, 

Yet  love,  in  our  divided  lives, 
Keeps  full  his  measure  as  of  old. 

Ah,  could  some  voice  from  heavenly  spheres 

Tell  us  it  has  not  been  in  vain, 
This  absence  long,  these  changing  years, 

But,  somewhere,  we  may  meet  again! 

June  4.  Went  to  the  Salon  and  studied  Puvis  de 
Chavannes'  immense  picture  "Ludus  pro  Patria,"  and 
find  it  improves  on  acquaintance.  It  is  well  composed, 
quite  original,  full  of  daylight  —  but  it  is  daylight  of  an 
alien  and  almost  spectral  world.  The  figures,  too,  all 
seem  as  if  they  belonged  to  some  world  of  the  classic 
Elysian  fields.  They  are  all  too  sad  and  serious  —  there 
is  nothing  of  the  joyousness  of  youth  and  sport.  Hardly 
a  smile  upon  a  single  face.  Perhaps  the  artist  intended 
some  such  shadowy  and  spectral  life,  in  the  dim  and  sub 
dued  coloring  he  has  given  to  his  picture.  M.  Puvis  de 
Chavannes  has  received  the  medaille  d'honneur.  Perhaps 
the  jury  may  be  right  in  decreeing  it.  But  if  the  picture  is 
poetic,  it  is  French  poetry. 


336    CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE   CRANCH 

June  16.  Went  to  the  Opera  to  hear  "Robert  le  Diable." 
First  time  I  had  been  in  the  Opera  House.  Had  a  seat  on 
the  top  row  and  found  it  very  hot  and  close.  There  is 
much  that  is  fine  in  the  music,  but  Meyerbeer  never  in 
terested  me  much.  This  opera  is  too  long  —  too  noisy  — 
and  on  the  whole  I  found  it  tedious.  I  was  too  high  up  to 
see  Baudry's  pictures  on  the  ceiling  —  I  got  a  glimpse  of 
them  from  below,  but  only  vaguely.  The  vestibule  and 
stairway  are  magnificent.  The  effect  of  the  brilliant  crowd 
coming  downstairs,  surrounded  by  this  superb  architec 
ture,  was  very  splendid  and  picturesque. 

Mr.  Cranch  to  George  William  Curtis 

MAGNOLIA,  MASSACHUSETTS, 
July  24,  1882. 

We  found  your  note  here,  and  were  very  glad  to  get 
your  friendly  salutation.  We  arrived  in  Boston  the  17th 
and  were  at  Cambridge  for  a  few  days.  .  .  . 

We  had  eight  days  of  rough,  rainy,  cold  weather 
aboard.  The  Captain  says  he  never  saw  such  weather  in 
July.  It  might  have  been  November.  Head  winds  all  the 
way  over.  But  the  last  three  or  four  days  were  fair  and 
calm.  .  .  . 

For  several  days  I  have  felt  incapable  of  rising  out  of 
a  purely  passive  state  of  mind  and  body.  I  fear  we  shall 
hardly  accomplish  our  proposed  visit  to  Ashfield.  At 
least  so  it  seems  to  us  at  present. 

P.S.  We  passed  a  pleasant  week  in  London,  though 
we  were  too  hurried  to  see  much.  I  accomplished,  how 
ever,  on  a  perfect  day,  a  visit  to  Windsor,  and  was  de 
lighted  with  the  place.  I  made  a  water-color  sketch  of 
the  magnificent  Castle,  into  which  I  went  to  see  the  show- 
able  places. 


THIRD  VISIT  TO  EUROPE          337 

In  his  Journal  at  this  date  he  says:  "This  place 
is  the  perfection  of  rest.  I  have  done  almost  nothing, 
a  little  sketching,  a  little  reading,  a  great  deal  of 
loafing." 

George  William  Curtis  to  Mr.  Cranck 

ASHFIELD,  MASSACHUSETTS, 
July  31,  1882. 

I  shall  be  in  the  cars  all  day  to-morrow  so  that  I  cannot 
slap  you  on  the  back  with  my  pen  and  congratulate  you 
and  Lizzie  upon  our  anniversary.  It  is  thirty-six  years 
ago,  my  young  friend,  that  we  sailed  o'er  the  waters  blue, 
and  if  our  heads  are  greyer,  our  hearts  are  not,  and  if 
memory  is  infinitely  richer,  hope  is  no  poorer.  No  man 
who  has  seen  what  we  have  seen  has  a  right  to  grumble, 
much  less  despair. 

When  you  said  that  you  were  coming  home  I  hoped 
that  we  might  have  drained  a  beaker  of  the  warm  South 
together  upon  our  day.  No  matter,  I  shall  pass  through 
Boston  and  look  toward  Magnolia,  and  waft  you  and 
yours  a  blessing. 


CHAPTER  XV 

CAMBRIDGE  STUDY  —  LAST  YEARS 

MY  father  was  much  affected  by  what  we  call  atmos 
phere.  He  had  the  sensitive,  poetic  temperament  in 
an  unusual  degree. 

He  was  seen  to  best  advantage  in  his  Cambridge 
study,  which  also  did  duty  as  a  studio.  Here,  with 
soft-tinted  walls,  an  open  Franklin  grate  for  cheer, 
his  armchair  at  a  convenient  angle,  his  favorite  books 
near,  and  most  suggestive  studies  from  Nature, 
a  portrait  of  his  friend,  William  Wetmore  Story,  by 
May,  and  his  own  copy  of  one  of  Ziem's  Venices,  on 
the  walls,  studies  from  the  Forest  of  Fontainebleau, 
the  little  Mont  Blanc  sunrise  that  was  poetical,  and 
photographs  of  his  dear  ones  on  the  mantel  —  he 
was  in  his  best  element. 

Quoting  from  a  short  poem  called  "My  Studio'* 
he  expresses  his  pleasure  in  its  quiet  and  seclusion: — 

"I  love  it,  yet  I  hardly  can  tell  why  — 
My  studio  with  its  window  to  the  sky, 

Far  above  the  noises  of  the  street, 
The  rumbling  carts,  the  ceaseless  tramp  of  feet; 

A  privacy  secure  from  idle  crowds, 
And  public  only  to  the  flying  clouds." 

The  study  in  Ellery  Street  was  a  square  room,  with 
one  large  window  to  the  north,  the  floor  covered  by 
a  carpet  of  brown  tint  and  simple  pattern;  an  old- 
fashioned  sofa  and  deep  armchair,  with  square  centre 
table,  for  his  papers,  pen  and  ink.  An  old  mahogany 
bookcase  with  diamond-shaped  glass  panes,  and  deep 
cupboards  below,  held  his  books  and  manuscripts; 


LAST  YEARS  339 

an  easel  or  two,  with  two  palettes  of  his  younger 
days,  a  guitar  and  a  flute,  some  pipes  and  a  tobacco- 
jar,  completed  the  outfit. 

There  was  an  air  of  serenity  and  repose  about  the 
room.  Here  he  was  most  at  home,  and  read,  in  a 
rapt,  musical  voice,  to  his  wife,  daughter,  or  friend, 
his  last  poem,  essay,  or  comic  rhyme.  My  father 
was  always  to  me  a  friend.  There  was  between  us 
such  close  and  entire  sympathy  that  it  was  hardly 
necessary  to  speak;  by  some  subtle  harmony  of 
thought  and  feeling,  each  divined  what  cold  words 
might  only  half  reveal. 

He  was  singularly  unworldly  and  childlike  in  dis 
position.  His  generous  impulses  would  carry  him 
away,  and  make  him  give  to  those  who  called  forth 
his  compassion  what  he  could  ill  spare  himself.  My 
mother  and  I  would  sometimes  reprove  him  for  those 
unsophisticated  ways.  He  always  accepted  the  re 
buke  very  mildly,  showing  how  truly  sweet  and  gen 
tle  his  nature  was. 

As  I  revered  my  father,  it  has  seemed  to  me 
strange,  in  after  life,  that  I  could  criticise  his  lines 
or  make  suggestions  upon  themes  that  were  so 
much  deeper  than  I  could  fathom.  He  invited  criti 
cism,  noting  and  taking  in  good  part  an  opinion, 
though  opposed  to  his  own. 

He  had  his  moods.  These  were  happy  moods  and 
dull  moods.  We  speak  of  being  in  a  "brown  study." 
Is  there  not  such  a  thing  as  a  sky-blue  study,  a 
golden  mood,  a  russet  thought?  With  the  high- 
strung  nature  of  the  poet,  there  are  moods  that  are 
both  ambrosia  and  nectar  to  him.  These  states  of 
feeling  and  thought  are  his  greatest  inspirations. 
His  best  poems  are  written  under  such  conditions,  in 


340    CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 

his  half-waking  dreams,  perhaps.  My  father's  best 
work  was  done  in  these  bright  moods.  While  the  fit 
was  on,  he  used  his  brush  rapidly.  The  glow  would 
sometimes  last  several  days.  To  such  natures  there 
come  also  the  corresponding  depression  and  sinking 
of  spirits.  It  seems  as  if  the  soul  must  sometimes  put 
on  sackcloth  and  ashes.  He  had  many  causes  for 
this  depression  in  later  life,  yet  he  averred  his 
"blues"  w^ere  constitutional;  two  thirds  physical, 
one  part  mental. 

At  such  times  music  was  his  comforter.  If  one 
were  to  turn  to  the  piano  and  play  the  opening 
chords  of  Mozart's  Sonata  in  C  major,  or  the 
"Adelaide"  of  Beethoven,  or  other  of  his  favorites, 
he  would  take  up  his  flute,  play  part  of  the  air 
through,  and  end  by  letting  out  his  voice  to  its  full 
compass.  Then,  the  dull  clouds  would  break,  the 
dark  mists  and  vapors  enveloping  brain  and  heart 
would  disperse,  leaving  only  pure  sunshine  and 
clear  skies. 

To  many  persons,  my  father  seemed  cold  and 
unsympathetic,  because  they  only  saw  him  in  his 
dull  moods.  He  was  undoubtedly  reserved.  It  is  the 
protection  which  shy  natures  sheathe  themselves 
with,  of  which  Emerson  says:  "Bashfulness  and 
apathy  are  a  tough  husk  in  which  a  delicate  or 
ganization  is  protected."  Shrinking  and  modest  as 
a  woman,  he  had  undoubtedly  a  most  virile  mind. 
With  congenial  spirits  he  was  unreserved,  genial, 
sympathetic,  to  a  great  degree.  Into  his  study  came, 
from  time  to  time,  his  friends:  John  Dwight,  of 
musical  renown;  Dr.  Frederick  Hedge,  Mr.  John 
Holmes,  Mr.  Frank  Boott,  Dr.  William  James,  Mr. 
Samuel  Longfellow,  Mr.  Beckwith,  a  professor  of 


LAST  YEARS  341 

literature;  Mr.  Allen,  a  minister,  and  Mr.  Stevens, 
his  friend  and  neighbor;  John  Knowles  Paine,  com 
poser  and  musician;  and  women  —  a  few. 

He  wrote  on  a  scrap  of  paper,  on  his  knee,  seated 
in  an  old  easy-chair,  with  a  pipe  in  his  mouth, 
looking  like  a  prophet  of  the  olden  time,  with  his 
white  hair  and  beard  —  his  gaze  far  away. 

He  had  no  well-sorted  library.  He  was  too  much 
on  the  wing  and  too  unselfish  to  collect  what  he 
really  wanted.  Late  in  life  he  expressed  a  wish  for  all 
the  poets,  and  his  family  were  supplying  this  want. 

A  pocket  edition  of  Shakespeare  of  good  print, 
I  remember,  he  often  carried  with  him.  "A  Collec 
tion  of  English  Songs"  of  early  date  was  prized 
by  all  the  family.  Volumes  of  some  of  his  friends, 
with  autograph  signatures,  are  carefully  preserved 
by  his  family.  Numerous  French  books,  an  old 
Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  and  books  running  over 
a  wide  range  of  subjects,  were  gathered  from  his 
travels.  Many  of  Carlyle's,  and  the  "Emerson- 
Carlyle  Correspondence,"  Henry  James  Senior's 
books,  Dr.  James's  "Psychology,"  were  on  his 
shelves.  Books  scientific,  theological,  he  read  and 
enjoyed.  His  mind,  early  trained  to  philosophical 
discussion,  kept  pace  with  the  thought  and  higher 
criticism  of  the  day.  But  it  was  very  far  from  a  com 
plete  library. 

My  father's  memory  was  good.  He  quoted  whole 
pages  of  Shakespeare,  Emerson,  the  "Biglow 
Papers,"  and  read  aloud  very  well.  He  often  read  to 
us  after  dinner  in  the  parlor,  while  we  sewed  by  the 
lamp.  But  he  would  retire  to  his  study  with  a  pipe, 
to  pursue  some  line  of  thought,  or  finish  his  special 
reading.  At  such  times  we  did  not  disturb  him. 


342    CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 

His  nature  was  generally  serene,  except  deep 
moods  of  melancholy  that  grew  as  he  grew  older. 
He  had  a  great  sense  of  humor,  which  gave  his 
friends,  as  well  as  himself,  much  pleasure. 

His  study  was  certainly  a  most  individual  room, 
where  he  was  most  at  home,  in  his  own  domain, 
among  books,  pictures,  and  his  beloved  pipes. 

William  James  to  Mr.  Cranch 

CAMBRIDGE,  May  7,  1883. 

I  naturally  find  myself  pleased  and  flattered  enough  by 
such  appreciation  as  your  note  expresses.  The  contents 
of  the  address  was  after  all  nothing  but  rather  a  com 
plicated  way  of  stating  the  attitude  of  common  sense, 
that  by  philosophers  much-despised  entity.  It  may  be 
that  much  of  my  intellectual  nisus  is  toward  the  rein 
statement  of  common  sense  to  its  rights;  at  any  rate,  I 
find  myself  constantly  taking  sides  with  it,  against  more 
pretentious  ways  of  formulating  things. 

I  should  much  like  to  talk  over  these  matters  some 
times  with  you,  and  meanwhile  I  feel  singularly  encour 
aged  by  your  generous  words.  .  .  . 

George  William  Curtis  to  Mr.  Cranch 

WEST  NEW  BRIGHTON,  STATEN  ISLAND, 
May  27,  1883. 

Your  beautiful  little  verses  are  full  of  music  and  picture 
—  and  youth.  How  far  away  it  seems  but  how  fresh, 
how  fair!  When  you  speak  of  threescore  and  ten,  and  I 
remember  how  steadily  and  with  equal  pace  I  follow  you, 
I  cannot  comprehend  it,  so  much  do  I  feel  myself  to  be 
the  same  old  boy. 

Have  you  seen  the  sad,  wasted,  dying  face  of  Keats  in 
the  current  "Century  "?  It  is  much  the  same  as  that  pub- 


LAST  YEARS  343 

lished  in  the  "  Correspondence  with  Fanny  Brawne"  — 
a  cruel  book  which,  like  the  letters  of  Mrs.  Carlyle,  make  a 
man  ask  if  nothing  is  to  be  sacred  in  privacy  or  human 
relations.  How  little  the  pathetic  head  has  in  common 
with  his  rich  and  abounding  strain!  What  a  life!  What  a 
death!  Yet  I  recall  perfectly  the  peace  of  that  bright 
Roman  morning  when  we  stood  by  his  grave,  the  morn 
ing  which  dawns  again  in  your  pensive  lines,  and  which 
will  always  shine  over  his  grave. 

AT   THE   GRAVE   OF   KEATS 
To  G.  W.  C. 

Long,  long  ago,  in  the  sweet  Roman  spring, 

Through  the  bright  morning  air  we  slowly  strolled, 

And  in  the  blue  heaven  heard  the  skylarks  sing 
Above  the  ruins  old. 

Beyond  the  Forum's  crumbling  grass-grown  piles, 

Through  high- walled  lanes  o'erhung  with  blossoms  white 

That  opened  on  the  far  Campagna's  miles 
Of  verdure  and  of  light:  — 

Till  by  the  grave  of  Keats  we  stood,  and  found 
A  rose  —  a  single  rose  left  blooming  there, 

Making  more  sacred  still  that  hallowed  ground, 
And  that  enchanted  air. 

A  single  rose,  whose  fading  petals  drooped, 
And  seemed  to  wait  for  us  to  gather  them. 

So,  kneeling  on  the  humble  mound,  we  stooped 
And  plucked  it  from  its  stem. 

One  rose,  and  nothing  more.   We  shared  its  leaves 
Between  us,  as  we  shared  the  thoughts  of  one 

Called  from  the  field  before  his  unripe  sheaves 
Could  feel  the  harvest  sun. 

That  rose's  fragrance  is  forever  fled 

For  us,  dear  friend  —  but  not  the  Poet's  lay. 

He  is  the  rose  —  deathless  among  the  dead, 

Whose  perfume  lives  to-day. 
May  7,  1883. 


344    CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 

Mr.  Cranch  to  John  S.  D wight 

CAMBRIDGE,  May  13,  1883. 

I  greet  you  on  your  arrival  with  me  at  the  Scriptural 
age  of  threescore  and  ten  —  you  my  junior  by  two 
months.  Can  you  believe  it  —  we  have  known  each  other 
fifty  years!  The  whirligig  of  time  with  its  ceaseless 
revolution  and  changes,  absences  from  each  other, 
differences  of  occupation,  and  so  on  —  has  not,  I  think, 
worn  away  in  the  least  our  old  friendship.  We  were  drawn 
together  from  the  first  by  intellectual  sympathies,  by  our 
studies  in  the  Divinity  School ;  by  our  tendencies  toward 
freer,  fresher,  more  ideal  views  of  literature  and  life;  in 
aspirations  of  the  true,  the  good  and  the  beautiful;  and 
not  least,  by  our  common  love  of  music.  We  were  youths 
then  —  are  we  older  now?  Wiser,  let  us  hope  —  but  both 
young  at  the  core  of  our  hearts. 

CAMBRIDGE,  May  15,  1883. 

Do  you  remember  how  mortified  poor  Mark  Twain 
was  about  that  unfortunate  speech  of  his  at  the  "Atlantic 
Monthly"  dinner?  Well  —  I  am  just  as  mortified  about 
the  speech  I  did  n't  make,  but  should  have  made,  last 
night  in  response  to  your  friendly  notice  of  me.  Ah,  woe 
is  me!  I  could  not  heave  my  heart  into  my  tongue.  There 
were  so  many  strange  faces,  and  I  was  unprepared,  not 
thinking  there  was  to  be  any  speech-making.  To  you 
they  were  all  well  known  —  and  your  felicitous  speech 
showed  what  an  advantage  that  gave  you  over  me.  Still, 
as  your  guest,  and  old  friend,  I  might  have  responded, 
even  if  I  did  so  in  a  bungling  way,  which  would  probably 
have  been  the  case.  Ah  —  there  is  no  gift  I  so  envy  at 
such  times  as  the  gift  of  speech.  After  the  occasion  goes 
by,  how  often  I  think  of  things  I  should  like  to  have  said. 


LAST  YEARS  345 

I  have  nothing  but  the  esprit  d'escalier.  Therefore  my 
mortification  is  twofold. 

First,  that  I  did  not  appear  in  a  better  light  to  the  com 
pany  —  and 

Second — that  I  could  not  transform  the  public  gathering 
into  an  informal  meeting  of  sympathetic  friends,  and  say 
to  you  —  in  their  presence  what  I  should  like  to  have  said. 

So  you  have  it  —  vanity,  diffidence  —  sensitiveness 
before  strangers,  and  the  misery  of  not  having  presence  of 
mind  enough  and  natural  gift  enough,  for  the  right  sort 
of  speech  —  all  these  so  reacted  upon  me,  that  it  was  long 
before  I  could  sleep. 

A  strange  thought  came  into  my  head  that  in  some 
future  state  of  existence  Time  may  be  abolished ;  and  the 
now  and  then  not  be  so  disjoined  that  they  can't  be  woven 
—  as  warp  and  woof  into  one  act  representative  of  our 
best  moments  —  as  I  can  take  up  my  picture  and  work 
on  it,  correcting  it  and  changing  it  as  I  like. 

The  complex  state  of  mind  I  here  make  confession  of, 
was  only  internal  discord  —  after  hearing  such  good 
music,  and  having  such  a  good  social  time. 

Edward  P.  Cranch  to  his  brother 

CINCINNATI,  September,  2.  1883. 

...  I  have  on  hand  at  the  Pottery  a  quart  jug,  on  which 
I  have  traced  some  of  your  juvenile  depravities  in  art, 
which  you  have  probably  forgotten,  just  to  make  you 
laugh.  I  wish  I  could  fill  it  with  some  of  Father's  old 
Madeira,  in  which  Dr.  Dick  used  to  make  us  take  Peru 
vian  Bark,  in  the  merry  days  when  we  were  young  on 
the  banks  of  the  blue  Potomac. 

But  I  have  laughed  all  my  life  over  these  foolish  devils. 
I  have  quite  a  collection  of  them.  No  wine  could  make 
them  better.  . 


346    CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 

Mr.  Cranch  to  his  brother  Edward 

CAMBRIDGE,  September  9,  1883. 

And  yesterday  came  the  box,  safely  containing  your 
two  beautiful  pieces  of  pottery.  Mine  very  quaint  and 
pretty,  and  of  a  good  color,  with  those  foolish,  half -for 


gotten  scraps  on  it,  "juvenile  depravities  in  art,"  you  may 
well  call  them;  and  your  hornet,  and  the  dog  trying  to 
scratch  himself.  And  Carrie's  cologne  jug  which  is  rich 
and  beautiful. 

Well !  as  I  can't  see  you  with  the  bodily  eyes,  and  don't 
know  when  I  shall,  I  rejoice  all  the  more  to  have  these 
few  lines  from  you,  your  brotherly  affection,  and  these 
gifts,  the  work  of  your  own  brain  and  hand.  .  .  .  We  had 
a  pleasant  five  weeks  sojourn  at  Newport;  saw  a  good 
many  old  friends  and  made  some  new  acquaintances. 
.  .  .  We  found  ourselves  involved  in  a  web  of  social  re 
sponsibilities,  with  much  expenditure  of  visiting  cards 
and  general  attention  to  our  toilets,  the  longer  we  stayed 
there.  Everybody  there  appears  rich.  The  wealth  and 
display  seem  enormous.  Fashion,  of  course,  reigns  tri 
umphant,  but  we  kept  clear  of  that.  Sam.  Coleman,  the 


a   ec^./.  ^    >t^*  5^r. 


DRAWING  FOR  A  BOOK  OF  RHYMES 


LAST  YEARS  347 

artist,  has  established  himself  there  and  has  built  ...  a 
gem  of  a  house,  the  most  beautiful  and  artistic  in  its  in 
terior  decoration  of  anything  I  ever  saw.  He  has  a  royal 
studio  in  it,  of  course.  But  I  can't  begin  to  describe  his 
house;  it  is  a  touch  beyond  anything  in  the  country,  and 
the  decorative  designs  are  all  his  own.  .  .  . 

What  you  say  of  my  Emerson  article  tickles  my  vanity. 
But  your  love  adds  a  precious  seeing  to  your  eye.  I  wish 
I  could  think  it  as  good  as  it  seems  to  you.  .  .  . 

George  William  Curtis  to  Mrs.  Cranch 

WEST  NEW  BRIGHTON,  STATEN  ISLAND, 
October  29,  1883. 

Your  note  and  its  enclosure  are  most  welcome  and  I 
thank  you  with  all  my  heart.  The  photograph 1  shows  — 
bating  color,  of  which,  of  course,  there  is  no  hint  —  one 
of  the  finest  portraits  that  I  ever  saw.  It  is  permeated 
through  and  through  with  the  subject,  his  aspect,  his  air, 
his  movement,  his  individuality  —  so  that  Anna  and 
Lizzie  cannot  believe  that  it  is  not  directly  from  life.  It 
is  the  most  satisfactory  and  charming  work,  and  Carrie 
ought  to  have  all  the  highest  honors  of  the  Academy. 
Give  her  my  love  and  thanks,  which  are  not  academic 
honors ! 

Ah,  yes!  dear  Posthumus,  which  is  Latin  for  Pearse,  we 
are  all  going  down  the  hill,  but  on  its  warm  and  I  hope, 
long,  western  slope.  Next  summer  we  must  somehow  get 
together  while  some  of  our  faculties  yet  remain  and 
mumble  ancient  memories  together. 

M r.  Cranch  to  Mrs.  Brooks 

CAMBRIDGE,  January  31,  1884. 

I  have  been  remarkably  well  this  winter  —  only  a 
slight  touch  of  lumbago  some  weeks  ago.  I  walk  a  good 
1  A  photograph  of  Miss  Cranch's  portrait  of  her  father. 


348     CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE   CRANCH 

deal,  do  the  marketing,  cut  wood,  bring  up  my  coal 
and  make  my  own  fire  every  day,  and  on  the  whole  I  am 
about  as  lively  as  an  old  gentleman  of  my  age  can  expect 
to  be. 

Last  Saturday  I  lectured  in  Boston  to  the  young  ladies' 
Saturday  Morning  Club,  on  the  "Sonnets  of  Shake 
speare."  ...  I  have  also  dined  with  the  Harvard  Musical 
Association  at  their  annual  dinner,  John  D  wight  presiding. 
Dwight's  portrait,  which  has  been  purchased  for  the 
Association  by  subscription,  was  unveiled  on  this  occa 
sion.  I  was  called  on  for  a  speech  and  forgot  to  allude  to 
the  portrait;  but  made  up  for  it  by  reading  a  couple  of 
sonnets  on  "Music"  and  "Poetry."  Carrie's  health  was 
proposed  and  drunk,  all  the  guests  standing.  She  has 
been  greatly  complimented  about  this  portrait;  I  think  it 
as  good  as  mine.  .  .  . 

Mr.  Cranch  says  in  a  letter  to  Mrs.  Scott,  Decem 
ber  16, 1884 :  "To-night  I  am  to  read  the  part  of  Bot 
tom  at  the  Shakespeare  Club.  The  meeting  is  at 
Dr.  Asa  Gray's.  I  shall  take  great  pleasure  in  doing 
it,  and  shall  make  a  hit  and  show  them  how  the  part 
should  be  done.  ...  I  have  just  discovered  a  young 
poet  here,  who  addressed  an  excellent  sonnet  to  me, 
and  is  one  of  my  admirers.  He  seems  a  very  in 
telligent  and  gentlemanly  young  man  and  is  taking 
a  course  of  literature  under  Professor  Child." 

Beholding  thee,  O  poet;  one  mild  night 

Beside  thy  casement,  where  the  autumn  rain 
In  sadness  whispered  to  thee  through  the  pane, 

Mourning  the  death  of  days  of  calm  delight, 

I  marvelled  what  sweet  song  thou  didst  indite 
To  art  or  nature,  in  what  lofty  strain 
Thou  didst  invoke  old  myths,  what  fine  refrain 

Trembled  upon  thy  lips  as  poised  for  flight. 


LAST  YEARS  349 

Whate'er  the  poems,  —  joyous  as  the  Morn 

That  treads,  bright-sandalled,  on  the  hills  of  earth, 

Grave  as  the  minlike  Eve  with  brow  forlorn, 
And  lips  unblessed  by  any  smile  of  mirth, 

Within  my  heart  that  hour  this  wish  was  born, 
That  mine  had  been  the  brain  that  gave  it  birth! 

Clinton  Scollard. 

Mr.  Cranch  to  Rev.  Charles  T.  Brooks 

October  29,  1882. 

Great  is  the  power  of  circumstance.  Time  and  space 
stand  between  old  friends,  strong  almost  as  death  itself. 
You  and  I  have  been  divided  for  a  lifetime,  and  yet  there 
are  memories  that  often  bring  you  to  my  thoughts,  — 
not  to  speak  of  our  old  Divinity  School  companionship. 
What  brings  you  very  near  to  me  is,  that  you  were  the 
most  appreciative  admirer  of  my  "  Satan,"  a  little  book 
that,  though  well  spoken  of  by  the  press  at  the  time  of 
publication,  literally  fell  dead  in  the  public  estimation, 
and  was  absolutely  without  a  sale.  But  I  can't  help  think 
ing  it  was  in  some  respects,  as  you  intimated  in  your  kind 
and  flattering  notice  in  the  "Boston  Advertiser,"  my 
best  poem.  Now,  as  I  have  in  petto  a  project  of  putting 
out  ere  long  another  volume  of  poems,  I  wish  to  give  this 
one  another  chance.  And  I  have  been  re- writing  or  rather 
correcting  and  filling  it  out,  having  interwoven  in  places 
where  it  was  needed,  several  lyrics  and  choruses,  which 
give  it  more  completeness;  and  I  can't  help  flattering  my 
self  that  I  have  greatly  improved  it.  But  the  name  has 
been  objected  to.  The  critics  said  it  is  a  "calamitous 
title."  I  as  yet  have  not  been  able  to  hit  upon  a  better. 
I  wish  I  could,  and  I  wish  you  could  help  me.  How  hard 
it  is  sometimes  to  baptize  the  progeny  of  our  brains! 
You  with  your  fine  scholarship  may  be  able  to  hit  upon  a 
name  for  me.  Do  think  it  over,  and  give  me  some  sug 
gestions.  What  do  you  think  of  "Ormuzd  and  Ahri- 


350    CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 

man"?    It  must  be  some  name  suggestive  of  the  conflict 
between  good  and  evil.  .  .  . 

To  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes 

CAMBRIDGE,  February  2,  1885. 

I  meant  ere  this  to  have  either  written  to  you  or  called 
upon  you,  to  say  how  much  I  have  enjoyed  your  "  Life  of 
Emerson."  I  am  delighted  at  your  just  and  cordial 
appreciation  of  him.  For  one,  as  you  know,  I  have  been 
from  the  first  among  his  enthusiastic  admirers,  and  can 
well  remember  how,  for  years  I  felt  a  call  to  defend  him 
against  the  Philistines.  The  "Divinity  School  Address" 
was  of  course  the  greatest  rock  thrown  into  the  theo 
logical  current,  dividing  the  conservatives  from  the  so- 
called  transcendentalist  movement.  And  we  all  know 
how  long  the  two  streams  ran  and  tumbled  and  frothed 
divergently.  And  some  of  us  are  old  enough  to  note  how 
different  their  later  blending  and  confluence  is,  from  those 
days  of  turbulent  division. 

When  I  remember  the  impression  this  great  prose  lyric 
of  the  "New  Views"  made  on  some  of  the  leading  theo 
logians  of  the  liberal  faith  .  .  .  and  then  call  to  mind  the 
quiet  evening,  a  few  years  since,  when  I  heard  Emerson 
read  an  essay  at  Dr.  C.  C.  Everett's  house,  being  es 
pecially  invited  by  the  Dean  to  meet  the  Divinity  stu 
dents,  —  I  feel  that  I  have  lived  from  the  beginning  to 
the  end  of  a  wonderful  revolution  in  thought. 

You  have  treated  your  subject  with  great  skill,  bril 
liancy  and  justice.  Others  have  doubtless  said  this  be 
fore,  but  it  is  a  satisfaction  to  me  to  add  my  humble 
testimony  to  the  distinguished  merits  of  your  book,  for 
which,  and  for  the  exceeding  pleasure  I  have  had  in  read 
ing  it,  I  must  again  thank  you. 


LAST  YEARS  351 

To  his  brother  Edward 

CAMBRIDGE,  March  3,  1885. 

.  .  .  How  do  you  feel  about  Inauguration  Day  to 
morrow?  I  have  never  said  a  word  to  you  on  politics  since 
Cleveland's  election  —  I  heard  that  you  went  for  Elaine 
much  to  my  regret.  The  country  was  saved  from  a  great 
danger  when  he  was  set  aside,  but  it  was  a  close  contest. 
Blaine  would  have  perpetuated,  nobody  knows  how  long, 
the  old  wretched  spoils  system  —  the  curse  of  our  coun 
try  —  and  put  back  Civil  Service  Reform,  and  would  have 
given  a  sanction  to  all  the  rottenness  and  corruption 
which  the  foes  of  this  reform  are  answerable  for.  I  am 
sure  that  now  the  country  has  a  safe  leader.  I  don't  care 
if  he  has  the  name  Democrat.  .  .  .  Cleveland  will  at  least 
give  us  a  clean  government.  One  of  the  best  signs  of  it  is 
that  all  the  tag-rag  of  the  Democratic  Party  join  the  de 
posed  spoils-system  men  in  howling  at  his  heels.  There 
will  be  a  tremendous  pressure  upon  him  as  of  upper  and 
nether  millstones,  and  they  will  try  to  grind  him  to 
powder,  and  in  more  ways  than  one  he  will  be  in  imminent 
danger  from  the  Bourbons.  But  I  think  he  will  be  a 
match  for  them  all.  He  will  be  besieged  and  squeezed 
worse  than  any  President  ever  was  .  .  .  but  enough  of 
politics. 

A  friend,  by  the  way,  gave  us  season  tickets  for  the 
Boston  concerts  which  we  consider  a  great  boon.  At 
the  last  concert  they  gave  the  Seventh  Symphony  of 
Beethoven.  I  never  heard  it  so  splendidly  rendered. 
Gericke  is  the  best  conductor  we  have  ever  had. 

I  think  I  never  enjoyed  Beethoven  more  intensely  than 
last  Saturday  night.  I  had  forgotten  this  symphony  was 
so  wonderfully  great.  It  suggested  such  forms  of  beauty 
and  of  life  —  of  deep,  grand  sadness  and  exuberant  joy  — 
all  the  vicissitudes  and  abrupt  transitions  of  life  —  all  its 


352    CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 

melancholy,  its  effort,  its  triumph.  The  wonderful  and 
original  and  masterly  working  up  of  its  simple  themes  is 
heart-stirring.  It  is  as  if  Shakespeare  and  Milton  and 
Dante  were  melted  into  one.  There  is  deep  under  deep 
of  mysterious  beauty,  of  feeling  beyond  the  power  of 
words  —  "Beauty  too  rich  for  use,  for  earth  too  dear." 
I  Have  you  seen  any  of  the  newspaper  controversy  about 
Margaret  Fuller?  All  occasioned  by  the  publication  of 
Hawthorne's  Life  by  his  son,  who  was  rash  and  foolish 
enough  to  publish  parts  of  his  father's  diary  in  which  this 
noble  woman  is  vilified.  Mr.  Julian  Hawthorne  under 
took  the  defense  of  his  father's  judgment  of  her  in  the 
papers,  and  followed  it  up  with  unnecessary  animosity. 
Among  other  respondents  I  wrote  for  the  "Boston 
Transcript"  twice  in  Margaret's  defence,  and  Lizzie 
added  a  short  cracker  o  f  her  own.  Emelyn  Story  has 
written  a  letter  full  of  amazed  indignation.  I  think  by 
this  time  young  Hawthorne  has  his  quietus,  for  he  sees 
that  public  opinion  is  against  him.  Last  night  I  was  at  a 
meeting  of  a  Cambridge  Club  where  Colonel  T.  W.  Hig- 
ginson  gave  an  admirable  lecture  on  her  life,  and  Rev. 
Dr.  Hedge  added  some  reminiscences  of  his  own.  .  .  . 

CAMBRIDGE,  March  29,  1885. 

Going  to  the  post-office  this  Sunday  morning  through 
the  snowdrifts,  I  was  charmed  by  getting  your  good  long 
letter.  Your  transition  from  the  weather  to  politics 
amused  me.  I  think  this  is  the  first  time  we  ever  dis 
agreed  about  anything,  and  if  it  were  now  before  the 
presidential  election  instead  of  long  after,  I  might  be 
tempted  to  write  a  voluminous  epistle  on  this  subject. 
I  think  you  must  have  read  only  on  one  side  during  the 
campaign.  I  could  have  sent  you  no  end  of  testimony 
against  the  demoralized  Republican  Party,  but  especially 


LAST  YEARS  353 

against  their  corrupt  candidate.  We  may  be  trying  an 
experiment  in  putting  in  a  Democrat,  but  it  was  high 
time  there  should  be  a  change.  On  one  question,  at  any 
rate,  that  of  Civil  Service  Reform,  we  have  taken  it  out 
of  the  hands  of  leaders  who  were  wedded  to  the  old  spoils 
system.  Much  as  I  disliked  the  Democratic  Party,  I 
could  see  that  the  Republican  Party  had  forgotten  its 
own  splendid  past  record,  and  had  declined  upon  a  lower 
range  of  principle.  ...  It  was  something  quite  other  than 
party  predominance  that  the  country  needed.  Could  a 
new  party  have  been  formed,  it  would  have  been  what  we 
wanted;  but  the  time  was  not  ripe  for  it.  »  .  . 

But  I  won't  write  any  more  on  politics.  Cleveland  is  in, 
and  starts  with  a  fair  record.  ...  If  Cleveland  lives  he 
will  do  a  noble  work  for  the  purity  of  the  Civil  Service. 
And  I  don't  see  why  in  most  other  matters  of  political  im 
portance,  he  will  not  come  up  to  the  mark  along  with  the 
best  of  our  Presidents.  The  old  Democratic  issues  are 
dead.  We  could  not  revive  them  if  we  would,  and  it  is 
idle  to  let  ourselves  be  haunted  by  their  ghosts. 

WASHINGTON,  March  4, 1886. 

.  .  .  This  great  city  of  Washington.  I  was  not  pre 
pared  for  such  an  immense  evolution.  I  had  heard  of  its 
transformation  into  a  beautiful  city,  but  it  is  much  be 
yond  anything  I  imagined ;  and  the  extent  of  it,  —  the 
immense  area  which  I  remember  as  field  and  common  and 
slashes,  —  all  built  up  with  fine  houses  and  superb 
asphalt  pavements,  and  churches  and  public  buildings, 
reaching  in  every  direction  as  far  as  one  can  see,  with 
monuments  and  statues  and  parks !  I  wander  about  in  a 
state  of  amazement  which  only  increases  every  day.  I 
think  I  am  the  original  Rip  Van  Winkle.  One  afternoon 
I  made  a  pilgrimage  to  find  the  old  house  on  Capitol 


354    CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE   CRANCH 

Hill.  The  buildings  were  so  thick  about  it,  and  the  ground 
had  been  so  graded  away,  that  I  was  uncertain  at  first 
whether  it  was  the  identical  old  place.  But  finally  felt 
sure.  I  rang  at  the  door,  and  asked  if  Judge  Cranch  did 
not  live  there  once.  They  did  n't  know,  but  said  the 
house  was  very  old  and  used  to  be  called  the  Whitney 
House.  But  as  soon  as  I  peeped  in  and  saw  the  entry  and 
rooms,  I  knew  I  was  not  mistaken.  It  was  occupied  as  a 
boarding-house,  and  the  old  garden  is  turned  into  a 
marble  yard.  The  neighboring  houses,  where  the  Diggs, 
the  Watkins,  and  the  Brents  lived,  still  stood,  but  looking 
very  forlorn.  I  wrote  to  Margie  to  know  where  the  house 
was  in  which  Father  died,  and  she  tells  me  it  does  not 
exist;  it  was  near  the  old  Carroll  place,  but  a  Catholic 
institution  has  been  built  on  the  site  of  it.  I  never  saw 
that  house,  for  we  were  then  in  Europe,  but  it  was  there 
that  Rufus  and  Sister  Lizzie  also  died. 

Just  below  the  Capitol  Pennsylvania  Avenue  looks 
unchanged.  There  are  the  same  little  houses  and  tobacco- 
shops  and  drinking-houses,  and  general  rowdy  aspect; 
but  everywhere  else,  Washington,  compared  to  what  it 
was  when  we  were  boys,  is  the  evolution  of  the  ape  into 
the  man.  .  .  . 

I  have  not  been  in  Washington  before  since  1863. 

To  Mrs.  Scott 

CAMBRIDGE,  November  13,  1886. 

...  I  have  had  very  pleasant  occupation  this  summer 
and  fall  in  correcting  and  revising  the  proofs  of  my  new 
volume  of  poems,  which  will  be  published  this  month.  .  .  . 
I  look  upon  my  new  poems  as  the  best  and  maturest  work 
I  have  done  in  verse.  And  I  live  in  hope  to  see  some  justice 
done  to  that  work  by  the  critics,  and  a  more  popular 
reception  by  the  public.  My  "Satan"  goes  into  my  new 


LAST  YEARS  355 

volume  much  enlarged  and  improved,  and  under  the 
new  title  "Ormuzd  and  Ahriman."  I  have  hopes  it  will 
command  more  attention  than  it  has  under  the  old  name. 

We  had  a  great  day  in  Cambridge  last  Monday1  —  you 
will  have  seen  the  accounts  in  the  papers  —  at  Sanders 
Theatre,  where  Mr.  Lowell  delivered  his  fine  address, 
and  Dr.  Holmes  his  poem.  The  seats  reserved  for  ladies 
had  all  been  long  taken,  so  Mamma  and  Carrie  had  no 
chance.  But  I  went  in,  with  my  Divinty  School  badge, 
walking  in  the  procession  and  finding  an  excellent  seat. 
Lowell's  address  was  very  fine;  Holmes's  poem  was  a 
failure.  Both  are  to  appear,  I  hear,  in  the  next  "Atlantic 
Monthly." 

The  President  was  received  with  immense  enthusiasm. 
I  had  a  good  view  of  him,  though  not  very  near.  .  .  . 

George  William  Curtis  to  Mr.  Cranch 

WEST  NEW  BRIGHTON,  STATEN  ISLAND, 
December  2,  1886. 

I  was  in  town  last  night,  and  this  morning  I  came  home 
and  found  your  new  book  upon  my  table.  It  is  the  first 
day  of  winter,  clear,  cold,  —  an  icy  gale  blowing  without, 
and  I  sit  by  the  bright  fire  within  turning  the  page  and 
reading  and  musing,  your  songs  leading  me  on  — 

"Their  echo  will  not  pass  away 
I  hear  you  singing,  singing." 

That  poem  holds  me  with  the  spell  of  the  Lorelei.  One 
such  song  proves  the  singer. 

Then  how  beautiful  and  tender  are  the  sonnets.  In 
your  first  slight  volume  which  I  have,  I  remember  also 
the  sonnets  and  how  they  enchanted  me.  But  this  last 
sheaf  has  your  golden  grain,  and  I  shall  say  so  aloud.  It 

1  Celebration  of  the  two  hundred  and  fiftieth  anniversary  of  the 
foundation  of  Harvard  University. 


356    CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 

is  curious  that  the  same  mail  brought  me  a  copy  of  the 
autobiographic  sketches  to  1850  of  Georgiana  Bruce, 
whom  you  must  remember  at  Brook  Farm,  and  in  the 
Brook  Farm  chapters  there  is  mention  of  you  as  I  re 
member  you  when  I  first  saw  you  with  your  guitar  at 
the  Eyrie,  singing  old  songs.  .  .  . 

Francis  Boott  to  Mr.  Cranch 

BELLOSGUARDO,  FLORENCE, 
February  19,  1887. 

I  received  your  letter  not  long  since  of  13th  January, 
and  also  your  Xmas  present:  your  new  volume  of  poems, 
which  I  have  read  with  a  great  deal  of  pleasure,  and  have 
shared  this  too  with  others.  Among  these  is  Miss  Wool- 
son,  who  was  attracted  by  your  song  of  the  "Brown 
Eyes,"  1  having  known  but  little  of  your  writings.  She 
has  lately  returned  your  volume  I  lent  her,  and  I  take 
pleasure  in  enclosing  her  note.  0  si  sic  omnest  you'll 
say. 

Certainly,  as  you  say,  Stedman  owes  you  amends,  and 
he  seems  tardy  in  making  it  (or  them).  A  critic  ought 
never  to  be  blamed  if  he  follows  his  own  judgment;  but 
if,  as  it  appears,  the  omission  comes  from  carelessness  or 
f  orgetfulness,  he  can't  make  too  much  haste  in  trying  his 
remedies.  I  fancy  it  is  with  him  as  you  say  —  he  echoes 
the  voice  of  the  world,  and  ignores  the  public  duty  of  the 
critic  and  what  should  be  his  supreme  pleasure,  viz.,  dis 
covering  the  unseen  gems  and  hidden  flowers,  and  telling 
the  stupid  world  what  it  ought  to  admire. 

Thanks  from  both  of  us  for  your  congratulations. 
Lizzie  has  really  got  a  splendid  baby,  and  you  may  take 
my  word  for  it,  for  I  am  not  specially  a  baby-fancier.  .  .  . 

1  Mr.  Cranch's  poem,  "Soft  Brown  Smiling  Eyes,"  the  music  of 
which  Mr.  Boott  wrote. 


LAST  YEARS  357 

Constance  Fenimore  Woolson  to  Mr.  Boott 

.  .  .  Cranch's  poems  I  have  greatly  enjoyed.  I  admire 
all;  but  I  have  a  particular  admiration  for  Ariel's  song 
—  "I  have  built  me  a  magical  ship"  — in  "Ariel  and 
Caliban."  And  for  the  first  and  second  sonnets  —  "The 
Summer  goes"  —  and  "Parted  by  time  and  space."  I 
had  already  seen  "Old  and  Young"  —  which  was  sent  to 
me  from  the  United  States,  marked,  some  time  ago.  "In 
Venice"  is  an  exquisite  picture  of  the  most  exquisite 
city  in  the  world,  and  would  give  me  a  heart-ache  if  I 
were  reading  it  in  America  instead  of  here.  But  very 
American,  and  very  beautiful,  are  the  two  sonnets, 
"August"  and  "Idle  Hours,"  and  they,  in  their  turn, 
made  me  a  little  homesick  for  the  home-scenes  described 
so  truthfully  and  sweetly.  Last  of  all  comes  "A  Poet's 
Soliloquy,"  which  is  touching  and  beautiful  in  a  supreme 
degree. 

Mr.  Cranch  to  Miss  Dixwell 

April  10,  1888. 

Your  letter  just  received  telling  me  the  sad  news  of  Mrs. 
Duveneck's  death,  has  been  a  great  shock  to  me.  It  will 
take  me  long  to  realize  it,  so  totally  unexpected  is  it,  and 
so  ignorant  am  I  of  any  of  the  attending  circumstances; 
and  to  her  husband,  and  to  her  father,  what  a  blow!  Mrs. 
Cranch  feels  it  just  as  I  do,  and  we  hardly  dare  communi 
cate  the  sad  intelligence  to  our  daughter,  who  knew  and 
loved  her  so  well. 

I  knew  Lizzie  when  she  was  almost  an  infant,  in 
Florence  and  in  Paris,  and  I  have  known  for  many  years 
how  completely  bound  up  in  the  life  of  her  father  she 
was.  He  is  one  of  my  oldest  and  truest  friends  —  and 
under  this  strange  and  sudden  visitation  of  calamity  no 
words  I  can  utter  can  give  any  idea  of  what  I  feel  for  him. 


358    CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE   CRANCH 

Life  can  never  be  to  him  what  it  has  been,  for  his  future 
pathway  in  this  world  will  be  darkened  by  a  shadow  that 
will  never  be  lifted  from  his  heart. 

How  useless  are  words  in  speaking  of  such  a  bereave 
ment! 

She,  as  we  all  know,  was  so  good  and  so  gracious  —  so 
accomplished  and  so  full  of  talent,  and  so  true  an  artist. 
How  hard  that  her  brilliant  career  should  be  so  brief. 
How  hard  that  so  few  years  should  have  been  allotted 
for  her  married  and  maternal  life,  —  and  how  her  many 
friends  will  miss  her! 

If  there  be  recognition  of  friends  in  the  after-life  —  as 
there  must  be  —  else  the  whole  order  of  creation  is  a 
mockery  —  then  are  she  and  your  dear  sister  Anna, 
whose  death  I  deeply  felt  —  forever  united  —  as  they 
were  on  earth.  .  .  . 

To  his  brother  Edward 

NEW  YORK,  October  28,  1888. 

I  send  you  the  flute  duet,  a  little  trifle,  done  many  years 
ago;  and  also  a  variation  made  a  long,  long  time  ago, 
when  my  flute  was  in  a  livelier  condition.  I  have  a  port 
folio  full  of  little  things  I  have  tried  to  compose  at  times ; 
some  merely  airs;  and  some,  songs  with  words,  and  at 
tempts  at  harmonization  of  the  same.  If  ever  I  get  out 
West,  I  will  bring  some  of  them,  and  let  Emma  pro 
nounce  whether  they  are  worth  anything  or  not.  But 
one  thing  I  am  sure  of,  that  if  I  had  been  taught  the 
piano,  and  had  studied  harmony,  I  should  have  been  a 
composer.  .  .  . 

To  Mrs.  Scott 

NEW  YORK,  January  23,  1889. 

.  .  .  We  all  dined  the  other  day  at  Professor  W.  C. 
Russell's,  who  is  living  in  a  flat  in  our  street,  not  far  off. 


LAST  YEARS  359 

After  dinner  I  amused  them  and  the  little  boy  with  my 
usual  repertoire  of  imitations  of  noises  and  ventriloquism; 
and  they  tried  to  interest  us  in  the  game  of  poker,  which, 
I  am  sorry  to  say,  we  failed  to  appreciate.  I  told  them 
the  story  of  the  man  in  the  West,  who,  on  being  urged  to 
play  poker,  excused  himself  because  he  had  n't  his  re 
volver  with  him.  Our  only  evening  game  at  home  is  the 
old-fashioned  backgammon,  which  Mamma  and  I  take 
up  generally  for  an  hour  or  two  in  the  evening.  .  .  . 

You  can't  tell  how  I  pine  for  our  books  and  my  pictures 
and  studies  left  behind,  and  boxed  up  in  Cambridge. 
But  we  have  no  room  for  them  here.  If  we  could  get  a 
studio  within  reasonable  distance,  we  might  send  for 
them.  I  work  away  at  something  or  other  in  my  little 
room  at  home.  I  shall  have  three  large  water-color 
pictures  in  the  exhibition  which  will  soon  open  at  the 
Academy,  and  now  and  then  I  exhibit  a  painting  at  the 
Century  Club's  monthly  meetings.  I  have  just  had  ac 
cepted  by  "Scribner's  Magazine"  two  stanzas  with  an 
illustration  I  made,  which  I  will  copy  for  you,  —  that  is, 
the  poem.  The  editor  of  "Scribner's"  is  Mr.  E.  L.  Bur- 
lingame,  the  son  of  our  old  friend,  the  Minister  to  China, 
whom  we  used  to  know  in  Paris,  —  a  very  pleasant 
gentleman.  .  .  . 

THE  BIRDS  AND  THE  WIRES 

Perched  on  the  breeze-blown  wires  the  careless  birds 
Whose  chattering  notes  tell  all  the  wit  they  own, 

Know  not  the  passage  of  the  electric  words 

Throbbing  beneath  their  feet  from  zone  to  zone. 

So,  while  mysterious  spheres  enfold  us  round, 
Though  to  life's  tingling  chords  we  press  so  near, 

Our  souls  sit  deaf  to  truth's  diviner  sound. 

Ourselves  —  no  Nature's  wondrous  voice  we  hear. 


360    CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 

Francis  Boott  to  Mr.  Cranch 

CAMBRIDGE,  December  13,  [1888.] 

I  am  glad  you  are  comfortably  situated  at  New  York 
and  doubt  not  you  will  find  it  better  for  you  than  Boston, 
and  a  fortiori  Cambridge.  I  find  Duveneck  and  all  his 
artist  friends  are  of  that  opinion.  Indeed  those  of  his 
former  pupils  settled  there  think  it  offers  better  oppor 
tunities  for  an  American  than  Europe.  Duveneck  went 
on  there  not  long  ago  with  some  idea  of  staying.  But  he 
has  a  studio  in  Boston,  and  a  baby  too.  I  wish  you  could 
see  the  little  gentleman.  ...  I  suppose  you  take  great 
interest  in  your  grandchildren.  But  I  can't  help  feeling 
the  interest  in  them  becomes  very  different  as  they  get 
older.  Two  years  is  a  model  age,  every  day  develops  new 
traits,  new  acquisitions.  It  is  sad  to  fancy  him  a  big  fellow 
of  six  feet  or  more,  which  he  will  be  if  he  lives.  Of  course 
there  is  interest  even  for  such,  but  how  different.  .  .  . 
Let  me  see  your  song,  and  try  my  hand  at  it,  provided 
you  don't  get  any  satisfactory  arrangement.  Perhaps 
you  will  become  a  composer  in  the  next  world. 

Mr.  Cranch  to  Francis  Boott 

January  24,  1889. 

"Ne  sutor  ultra  crepidam"  is  a  wise  old  saw,  no  doubt, 
and  not  inapplicable  to  some  things  I  attempt  to  do. 
If  I  have  the  impulse  sometimes  to  weave  aesthetic,  airy 
robes  for  kings  and  queens,  when  I  should  be  working  at 
my  cobbler's  stool,  I  have  no  other  excuse  than  an  occa 
sional,  natural  inclination,  which  should  never,  however, 
be  indulged,  when  I  have  n't  even  entered  the  apprentice 
ship  of  the  craft.  My  poor  little  attempt  at  melody 
submits  humbly  to  the  judgment  of  experts.  And  I  am 
taught  not  to  assume  airs  unless  I  can  show  good  reason 
for  them.  I  have  given  you  a  good  deal  of  trouble  about 


LAST  YEAKS  361 

this  deformed  child  of  mine  for  whom  no  clothing  can  be 
found  to  make  him  a  gentleman.  Qa  ne  vaut  pas  la  peine  I 
Indeed  I  had  almost  forgotten  its  existence.  Let  it  go 
among  the  shades,  and  we  will  try  to  stick  to  our  last  in 
future.  But  I  must  thank  you  for  the  trouble  you  have 
taken  about  this  unnecessary  bantling. 

George  William  Curtis  to  Mr.  Cranch 

WEST  NEW  BRIGHTON,  STATEN  ISLAND, 
June  23,  1889. 

I  am  very  glad  that  you  enjoy  the  Motley  letters  which 
have  really  introduced  Motley  to  his  countrymen  and 
shown  them  how  easy  it  is  to  misconceive  a  personality. 
He  was  always  considered  a  doubtful  American,  but  he 
was  in  fact  one  of  the  best  types  of  true  Americanism. 
In  the  March  "Harper"  I  had  an  article  upon  him  to  an 
nounce  the  Letters,  in  which  I  alluded  to  this  quality. 
The  other  day  I  received  a  large  and  beautiful  sil 
ver  bowl  from  Lady  Harcourt  and  her  sisters,  suitably 
inscribed,  which  is  a  very  pleasant  memorial  of  the 
work.  Holmes  was  the  natural  editor,  but  he  said  that 
he  was  too  old  and  he  proposed  that  I  should  under 
take  it.  ... 

The  knee  relaxes  gradually  but  surely.  I  do  not  walk 
normally,  but  I  walk,  and  that  makes  me  gay.  I  am 
sorry  to  hear  of  your  blue  streaks,  but  they,  I  am  sure, 
are  only  summer  vapors.  If  you  have  not  decided  where 
to  go  for  the  summer,  I  should  think  this  heat  would 
make  the  vision  of  the  ocean  irresistible.  I  long  for  that 
even  among  the  pleasant  hills. 


362     CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 

Mr.  Cranch  to  Mrs.  Scott 

ASBURY  PARK,  NEW  JERSEY,  July  20,  1889. 
Chronicles  of  the  Land  of  Nod 
Chap,  xin 

1.  And  it  was  the  season  of  summer  in  the  Land  of 
Manhattan.  And  it  waxed  exceeding  hot. 

2.  And  they  that  had  nothing  to  do  sat  in  their  rock 
ing  chairs  and  read  the  papers,  or  consulted  the  ther 
mometer. 

3.  And  many  longed  to  get  out  of  the  city  and  seek  the 
sea,  but  they  could  not. 

4.  And  there  was  a  man  of  Manhattan  who  was  a 
painter,  and  he  left  the  city  with  his  family  by  steamboat 
and  railroad  to  the  Jersey  shore. 

5.  And  they  came  to  a  place  called  Asbury  Park. 

6.  How  be  it,  it  was  not  a  park,  but  a  flat  and  sandy 
tract  of  land  with  small  spindling  trees.    And  there  was 
nothing  to  paint. 

7.  And  they  came  to  a  house  called  the  "Magnolia." 
And  there  they  fell  among  the  Baptists. 

8.  Yet  were  they  exceeding  kind  folk,  and  were  not  of 
the  class  called  "Hard-Shell." 

9.  And  they  were  people  who  drank  no  wine. 

10.  And  their  dinner  hour  was  about  the  sixth  hour, 
when  European  people  sit  down  to  their  first  meal. 

11.  And  they  ate  fast,  and  went  and  sat  on  the  front 
porch.  And  there  they  talked  of  the  weather  and  of  the 
Baptist  Church. 

12.  But  sometimes    the  youths    and   young   maidens 
played  a  game  called  "croquet,"  with  loud  talking  and 
laughing. 

13.  And  lo,  there  was  among  them  a  Baptist  doctor  of 
divinity,  who  wore  unclerical  garments,  and  rode  upon  a 


LAST  YEARS  363 

bicycle.   And  there  was  no  one  who  gain-sayed  him,  or 
thought  that  he  did  that  which  was  unseemly. 

14.  And  this  man  from  Manhattan,  whose  name  was 
Christopher,   talked   on   the  porch   with   some   of   the 
Baptists.   But  they  did  not  try  to  convert  him. 

15.  And  on  week  days  some  of  the  younger  folks  went 
down  to  the  seaside,  where  there  was  a  great  crowd,  and 
dipped  themselves  in  the  roaring  waves. 

16.  And  on  the  Lord's  day  they  went  to  the  churches. 

17.  And  the  heat  was  exceedingly  fierce.    And  there 
was  laziness  and  languor  in  the  air.  It  was  a  land,  where, 
as  certain  of  our  poets  have  said,  it  seemed  always  after 
noon. 

18.  And  some  of  them  spent  much  time  in  sleep.  And 
those  who  did  not  sleep  sat  continually  on  the  front  porch, 
and  talked  of  the  weather. 

19.  And  they  who  took  afternoon  naps  said  perpet 
ually,  "Blessed  be  the  man  who  invented  sleep." 

20.  And  when  they  awoke  from  their  slumbers  they 
said,  "Lo,  this  is  the  Land  of  Nod,  of  which  the  Prophets 
of  old  did  speak."     Selah. 

.  .  .  We  have  been  here  about  a  week.  As  you  see  by 
foregoing  chronicle,  it  is  exceedingly  hot  weather.  But 
we  are  in  a  very  comfortable  house.  .  .  .  But  it  is  n't  like 
the  New  England  seacoast  air.  It  is  a  sleepy  place,  and 
it  is  an  effort  to  do  anything.  It  is  also  a  curious  place,  — 
a  large  town,  spread  out  with  pretty  houses  and  wide 
streets,  plenty  of  shops,  and  electric  lights,  and  electric 
cars.  .  .  .  There  is  fine  surf -bathing,  though  too  much  of 
a  crowd.  ,  .  . 


364    CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 

To  his  brother  Edward 

CAMBRIDGE,  October  28,  1889. 

I  am  glad  you  like  the  Quincy  poem.1  I  took  a  great 
deal  of  pleasure  in  writing  it,  and  in  delivering  it.  It  was 
listened  to  attentively,  and  is  spoken  of  well  by  my 
friends.  But  I  think  you  exaggerate  some  things  a  little. 
The  ground  I  had  to  work  on  was  hardly  "rough  and 
rocky,"  but  rather  an  oft-travelled  highway;  the  difficulty 
was  in  making  such  a  trite  theme  as  the  Puritan  Fathers 
fresh  and  poetical.  Perhaps  that  is  what  you  meant. 
Neither  was  the  audience,  I  think  "severe,"  at  least  my 
Quincy  meeting-house  audience, — I  can't  answer  for  that 
outside  reached  by  the  Press.  Nor  was  the  fact  of  its  be 
ing  published  entire  anything  specially  emphasizing  the 
poem.  The  occasion  was  an  interesting  one,  and  the 
"Herald"  laid  itself  out  to  appropriate  what  would  make 
the  best  show.  In  fact  it  was  put  into  type  before  it  was 
delivered. 

The  poem  will  be  published  in  the  church  exercises  in 
pamphlet  form.  And  then  Mead,  one  of  the  editors  of  a 
new  magazine,  "The  New  England  Magazine,"  wrote  to 
me  asking  if  he  might  print  it  in  his  publication.  I 
assented,  of  course,  it  having  already  become  public 
property  by  being  printed  in  the  "Herald."  The  whole 
thing  was  of  course  "a  labor  of  love,"  as  the  ministers 
say;  all  the  gold  I  get  being  whatever  golden  opinions 
may  happen  —  along  with  yours. 

October  30.  Interruptions  will  occur.  We  are  settled 
very  comfortably  in  our  old  Cambridge  home,  and  I 
should  like  to  stay  here.  I  have  my  cosey  study,  my  little 
adjoining  bedroom,  my  books  and  manuscripts  about 
me,  my  pleasant  outlook  from  the  windows,  with  the  sun- 

1  A  poem  read  by  Mr.  Cranch  at  the  celebration  of  the  two  hundred 
and  fiftieth  anniversary  of  the  First  Church  of  Quincy,  Massachusetts. 


LAST  YEARS  365 

shine  and  the  falling  October  leaves,  and  the  quiet  —  so 
different  from  Newport.  I  revel  in  the  space  and  elbow 
room  of  a  house;  we  were  absurdly  cramped  for  room  in 
our  New  York  flat.  There  are  some  great  conveniences  in 
a  flat,  but  great  limitations  too.  I  should  like  to  stay 
here,  and  end  my  days  here,  since  we  can't  afford  to  take 
&  house  in  Newport.  But  wife  and  daughter,  especially 
the  latter,  like  the  idea  of  trying  a  New  York  boarding- 
house  again  for  a  while.  .  .  .  But  we  shall  be  here  at  any 
rate  till  January.  .  .  . 

How  I  should  like  to  talk  with  you  about  your  Euro 
pean  experiences.  How  wonderfully  you  and  Emma  got 
through  with  your  tour.1 

CAMBRIDGE,  January  1,  1890. 

...  I  thank  God  to-day  for  you,  my  dear  brother,  and 
that  I  have  heard  from  you  at  last.  But  I  don't  blame 
you  for  not  writing  oftener,  with  your  lame  hand,  and 
your  work  to  do.  You  have  a  hard  life  compared  with 
mine,  and  are  a  little,  not  much,  farther  down  the  slippery 
slope  of  life,  where  we  can't  stand  quite  so  erect  and  spry 
and  acrobatic  as  once.  It  is  a  matter  of  great  curiosity  to 
me  to  think  what  we  two  old  gentlemen,  and  all  the  rest  of 
the  old  gentlemen  and  ladies  we  know,  are  coming  to, 
at  the  end  of  our  slide  downhill.  I  must  confess  to  terribly 
agnostic  views  about  it  all.  I  try  not  to  think  of  it;  I  try 
to  believe  there  may  be  a  waking  into  another  state.  But 
whether  there  be  or  not,  what  can  we  do  about  it?  I  pre 
sume  whatever  will  be,  will  be  for  the  best.  Our  good  old 
brother  John  would  be  shocked  if  I  ever  should  say  this 
to  him.  To  his  facile  faith  the  going  out  of  life  is  only  like 
stepping  from  a  train  to  a  platform — and  an  eternal  home. 

1  Mr.  Edward  Cranch,  who  was  in  his  eighty-first  year,  had  lately 
returned  from  his  first  visit  to  Europe. 


366    CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 

Are  you  buckling  to  the  Buckle?  No,  I  can't  say  I  have 
read  him,  but  a  long  while  ago,  in  Paris,  I  borrowed  him 
of  a  friend,  and  dipped  into  him,  and  was  much  interested. 
But  he  is  a  theorist,  and  believes  the  world  has  advanced 
through  Intellect  alone.  But  Intellect  is  only  one  of 
several  factors  in  the  world's  growth.  You  ask  what  is 
the  greatest  book  now.  I  really  don't  know.  I  only  see 
here  and  there  smaller  lines  of  light  in  what  seems  to  me 
the  right  direction.  We  have  some  clever  philosophic 
minds  in  New  England,  perhaps  as  good  as  anywhere. 
And  while  I  think  of  it,  let  me  strongly  recommend  you 
(if  I  have  n't  already)  to  a  remarkable  article  by  Dr. 
William  James,  son  of  Henry  James,  and  Professor  of 
Philosophy  here  in  Harvard  —  on  Spencer's  "Definition 
of  Mind." 

But  I  'm  not  much  of  an  explorer  in  philosophical  books. 
I  have  been  dipping  into  a  French  translation  of  Von 
Hartmann's  "  Philosophy  of  the  Unconscious."  I  did  so, 
because  I  had  written  an  essay  on  the  unconscious  life, 
which  I  have  read  once  or  twice  before  small  audiences. 
I  did  n't  see  Hartmann's  till  I  had  written  my  essay.  He 
goes  too  much  into  philosophy  and  endless  details  of  the 
relations  of  the  unconscious  to  organic  life,  for  me.  I 
found  that  I  agreed  with  him  in  many  things,  but  I  failed 
to  get  any  particular  light  from  him  on  the  Mind,  on 
Faith,  or  on  any  deep  things  of  the  Spheres.  We  have  a 
Sunday  Afternoon  Club  in  Cambridge,  where  we  meet 
at  one  another's  houses,  and  have  an  essay  and  conversa 
tion.  We  have  run  it  a  year  and  a  half.  We  have  had 
some  strong  men  read  for  us  —  Dr.  Hedge,  Dr.  C.  C. 
Everett,  J.  W.  Allen,  and  a  good  many  others.  Now  and 
then  I  have  taken  my  turn.  We  find  these  meetings  very 
edifying.  .  .  . 


LAST  YEARS  367 

CAMBRIDGE,  January  14,  1890. 

Your  appreciation  of  my  verses  "  warms  the  cockles 
of  my  heart"  (what  are  the  heart's  cockles,  by  the  way!). 
But  you  know  you  are  not  in  the  position  of  an  unbiased 
critic  —  "Love  adds  a  precious  seeing  to  the  eye."  I 
wish  all  my  small  and  select  circle  of  readers  could  put  on 
your  spectacles  and  see  the  beauties  that  you  do.  .  .  . 

That  is  excellent  and  striking  which  you  say  about  the 
conflict  of  forces  constituting  all  life.  Is  this  thought 
original  with  you,  or  partly  so?  It  is  good  and  memorable, 
and  accords  with  my  views  —  "By  this  conflict  Evil  be 
comes  not  good,  but  the  necessary  condition  of  it."  In  my 
"Ormuzd  and  Ahriman"  I  tried  to  express  something 
like  it  —  but  vaguely.  Your  formula  is  more  exact  and 
scientific. 

"Without  resistance  Force  itself  ceases  —  force  with 
nothing  to  act  on  being  unthinkable  and  non-existent." 
"Life  a  play  of  action  and  reaction  and  kept  up  by  oppos 
ing  forces."  This  is  good  —  and  all  that  follows.  I  clap 
my  hands  and  throw  you  an  invisible  bouquet. 
,  By  the  way,  I  have  just  given  in  the  proof  of  my  essay 
on  the  "Unconscious  Life,"  which  I  think  you  have  seen, 
to  Rev.  Joseph  H.  Allen,  the  Editor  of  the  "Unitarian 
Review."  It  will  probably  appear  in  the  next  number  — 
and  I  will  send  it  to  you.  Mr.  Allen  writes  me  very 
complimentarily  about  it:  "I  have  just  left  your  paper 
with  the  printer  —  with  gratitude  and  delight  that  you 
give  me  the  privilege  of  printing  it.  It  is  like  a  fresh 
breeze  out  of  the  golden  days  when  the  world  was  young 
—  to  us  I  mean  —  and  reads  like  one  of  the  clearest  and 
pleasantest  of  the  voices  that  belonged  to  that  time,  be 
fore  Carlyle  became  surly,  or  Emerson  had  gone  upon  the 
shelf.  How  is  it  that  we  have  known  so  little  of  you  in 
your  prose?" 


368    CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 

This  —  from  a  scholar  and  thinker  like  Allen  —  ought 
to  cheer  up  an  old  man  who  sees  his  audiences  fading 
away  around  him.  I  told  him  I  valued  his  praise  as  an 
incentive  to  better  work.  .  .  . 

Mr.  Cranch  was  asked  to  speak  at  the  Browning 
Memorial  Service  held  in  King's  Chapel,  Boston,  on 
January  28.  He  was  very  glad  to  respond,  and  his 
address  is  pleasantly  remembered  by  his  hearers, 
both  the  reminiscences  of  the  man  and  his  well- 
considered  appreciation  of  the  poet.1 

In  contradistinction,  a  letter  from  Mr.  Edward 
Cranch  to  his  brother,  written  about  this  time,  vig 
orously  expresses  what  a  good  many  feel  in  reading 
Browning. 

Like  Alcmene,  in  giving  birth  to  Hercules,  he  was 
racked  by  immortal  throes,  and  could  but  yell.  People  a 
thousand  miles  off  could  tell  something  was  the  matter 
with  him  —  but,  like  the  Delphic  Oracle,  he  lacked  the 
power  of  expressing  what  it  was.  And  when  he  was  most 
in  earnest  he  was  least  communicative.  Whether  this 
lack  of  perspicuity  resulted  from  indifference  or  his  na 
tural  buoyancy  of  spirit,  bouncing  over  ditches  and 
fences  like  a  kangaroo,  —  calling  dogs  to  come  along,  and 
raising  a  cloud  of  dust  behind  him.  —  One  says  lo!  here, 
and  one  says  lo!  there,  but  where  Browning  is,  or  what 
he  is  after,  is  beyond  any  human  comprehension  to  say  — 
like  a  flea,  etc. 

If  there  is  anything  that  baffles  and  angers  me,  and 
bungs  my  eye,  it  is  a  want  of  downright,  honest,  stark 

1  In  conversation  at  this  time  Mr.  Cranch  told  this  little  anecdote: 
"One  day,  it  was  in  Paris,  I  asked  Browning  what  was  the  Good 
News  they  brought  from  Ghent  to  Aix.  'Well,'  he  answered,  'you 
know  about  it  as  much  as  I  do.' " 


LAST  YEARS  369 

naked  perspicuity  of  style,  and  this  has  excluded  me  for 
ever  from  the  charmed  circle  of  Browning  worshippers, 
and  left  me  with  the  mark  of  Cain  on  my  forehead. 

But  Browning  is  no  charlatan.  He  is  a  good  honest 
man  —  or  thinker  —  who  has  been  sent  for  some  useful 
purpose.  He  may  have  been  sent  to  Vassar  to  punish 
young  ladies  for  blubbering  over  their  Miltons  and  Vir- 
gils,  —  or  to  Yale  and  Harvard  to  make  the  established 
classics  seem  easier,  —  or  to  Boston  to  fill  vacant  places 
left  by  the  clergy,  —  or  to  the  Chatauqua  circle  as  an 
endless  comfort,  or  subject  of  debate. 

But  joking  apart,  —  I  can  see  that  this  tough  Browning 
has  fought  his  way  to  the  front,  and  struck  a  magnifi 
cent  path  in  the  direction  of  reflective  poetry  of  the  future, 
and  I  don't  want  to  see  that  glorious  current  set  back. 

I  never  understood  Wagner  till  I  went  to  Baireuth  and 
I  don't  expect  to  ever  understand  all  of  Browning. 

Mr.  Cranch  to  George  William  Curtis 

CAMBRIDGE,  May  9,  1890. 

We  all  thank  you  for  sending  us  the  tissue  paper  por 
trait  of  yours  from  the  drawing  of  Mr.  Cummin,  and  here 
don't  let  me  forget  to  acknowledge  the  photograph  you 
sent  some  time  ago,  done,  I  think  in  Philadelphia.  It  is 
difficult  to  say  just  where  Mr.  Cummin's  drawing  fails  in 
being  altogether  satisfactory.  It  is  like  and  yet  not  like. 
WTe  all  think  he  has  missed  giving  the  character  and  vital 
ity  of  the  face.  It  has  a  more  worried  look  than  I  often 
see  in  you.  But  I  am  a  difficult  critic  as  regards  your  face, 
which  I  have  known  so  well  and  so  long,  and  I  dare  say 
the  drawing  will  seem  much  better  to  some  who  don't 
know  you  so  well.  But  as  the  mobility  of  your  features 
has  so  often  defied  the  photographer,  I  don't  much 
wonder  that  it  baffles  the  artist  too. 


370    CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE   CRANCH 

This  unlikeness  of  one  photograph  of  you  to  another, 
and  the  unlikeness  of  all  of  them  to  the  original,  is  always 
an  inexplicable  thing  to  me.  I  wish  you  would  keep  your 
collection  of  these  essays  and  show  them  to  the  portrait 
painters.  Did  Mr.  Cummin  see  them?  They  would  make 
a  most  unique  collection.1 

I  don't  think  I  ever  told  you  of  my  birthday  celebra 
tion  in  March.  My  friend  Mrs.  Stearns  had  given  me  a 
bottle  of  Spanish  wine  —  Xeres  —  which  she  declared 
was  over  a  hundred  years  old.  I  immediately  wrote  a 
sonnet  to  the  donor,  and  told  her  I  should  keep  the 
flask,  unopened  until  some  rare  occasion.  So,  as  my 
birthday  was  coming,  I  invited  three  old  cronies,  two  of 
them  born  the  same  year  with  myself  and  one  a  year 
older,  viz.:  John  S.  Dwight,  Frank  Boott,  and  John 
Holmes,  to  come  around  in  the  evening,  to  the  opening  of 
the  wonderful  old  wine.  They  all  came,  and  Lizzie  trotted 
out  some  of  the  old  family  silver,  and  presided  at  the 
table.  In  the  centre  appeared  the  wonderful  wine,  still  in 
its  old  straw  sheath.  Then,  by  way  of  grace,  I  read  them 
my  sonnet,  and  with  all  due  reverence  uncorked  the 
reverend  flask,  not  knowing  but  it  might  have  lost  all  its 
original  virtue.  But  we  all  looked  at  each  other,  and  I 
suppose  smacked  our  lips.  The  old  sherry  was  just  per 
fect;  a  trifle  dry,  but  such  a  bouquet!  As  a  fit  accompani 
ment  to  this  melody,  we  had  some  delicious  crackers  and 
cheese,  and  we  all  thought  nothing  could  be  sweeter. 

After  this  we  adjourned  —  we  four  old  fellows  —  to  my 
study,  where  we  finished  off  the  evening  with  punch, 
cigars,  and  quips  and  cranks,  and  wreathed  smiles,  and 
all  went  off  with  decent  sobriety,  not  one  mistaking 
another's  umbrella  or  overshoes  for  his  own.  Boott 

1  Mr.  Curtis  kept  a  collection  of  these  photographs  of  himself.  One, 
I  remember,  was  marked  underneath,  ''A  Idiot.'* 


GEORGE  WILLIAM  CURTIS 


LAST  YEARS  371 

actually  soared  into  verse,  and  wrote  some  lines  ad 
dressed  to  me  on  this  memorable  night! 

I  have  been  sitting  to  Duveneck  for  my  portrait,  a 
success,  I  think.  ...  I  am  quite  busy  preparing  my 
Autobiography,  not  for  publication,  but  for  my  children 
and  grandchildren,  as  a  family  record. 

Mr.  Cranch  wrote  this  to  the  hermit  thrush,  which 
is  heard  morning  and  evening  on  Gerrish  Island. 
He  was  staying  at  the  Hotel  Pocahontas  before  he 
made  his  visit  to  the  new  house.  Quoting  from  the 
"Log  at  Brawboat,"  he  says:  — 

"Nothing  can  exceed  the  beauty  and  variety  of  the 
views  in  every  direction.  At  the  Pocahontas  .  .  .  the 
view  of  the  open  sea  and  lonely  rocks  is  impressive  but 
monotonous.  .  .  .  Here,  the  various  indentations  of  the 
coast  with  the  rising  and  falling  of  the  tide  —  the  ship 
ping  —  the  houses  in  the  distance  —  the  pond  —  the 
dark  fir  woods  —  the  rocks,  give  a  most  agreeable  com 
bination  of  solitude  and  human  life." 

"Oh,  will  you,  will  you?"  sings  the  thrush 

Deep  in  his  shady  cover. 
"Oh,  will  you,  will  you,  live  with  me, 

And  be  my  friend  and  lover? 

"With  woodland  scents  and  sounds  all  day, 

And  music  we  will  fill  you; 
For  concerts  we  will  charge  no  fee. 
Oh,  will  you,  will  you,  will  you?'* 

Dear  hidden  bird,  full  oft  I  Ve  heard 

Your  pleasant  invitation, 
And  searched  for  you  amid  your  boughs 

With  fruitless  observation. 

Too  near  and  yet  too  far  you  seem 

For  mortals  to  discover. 
You  call  me,  yet  I  cannot  come, 

And  am  your  hopeless  lover. 


372    CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 

Like  all  that  is  too  sweet  and  fair, 

I  never  can  come  near  you. 
Your  songs  fill  all  the  summer  air  — 

I  only  sit  and  hear  you. 

GERRISH  ISLAND,  July  11,  1890. 

0.  B.  Frothingham  to  Mr.  C ranch 

BOSTON,  November  16,  1890. 

Your  Sonnets  to  O.  B.  F.  in  your  last  volume  touched 
me  deeply.  Would  the  subject  were  worthy  of  them! 
Such  recognition  is  more  than  reward  enough.  There  is 
real  satisfaction  to  one  who  has  flung  abroad  so  many 
seeds  that  have  perished  because  they  had  no  right  to 
live,  that  some  have  lodged  in  a  poetic  soul  and  brought 
forth  such  fruit. 

Your  lines  on  "Old  Age"  in  "Scribner's"  for  October 
too  were  most  pathetic.  They  brought  tears  to  my  eyes, 
I  accept  the  greeting,  I  entertain  the  trust.  The  hope 
grows  sweeter  and  dearer  as  the  shadows  gather. 

I  should  have  been  to  see  you  long  ago  if  I  had  been 
able;  but  mine  has  been  a  miserable  Autumn.  Pain  and 
weakness  have  kept  me  in  town  and  have  greatly  circum 
scribed  my  walking  in  the  city.  .  .  . 

Mr.  Cranch  to  his  brother  Edward 

CAMBRIDGE,  December  28,  1890. 

I  usually  go  to  church,  but  this  morning  wife  and 
daughter  take  my  place,  and  I  perform  the  secular  duty 
of  going  to  the  P.  O.,  and  behold  I  am  rewarded  with  your 
letter  written  Xmas  Day.  .  .  .  Your  letter  makes  brighter 
to  me  even  this  bright  sunshiny  day.  But  I  don't  like  that 
picture  of  you  I  see  sitting  on  Christmas  Day  over  your 
fire,  with  your  little  black-and-tan  for  company,  and  all 
the  family  away,  and  the  snow  coming  down  and  the 
wind  howling,  and  you  covering  up  your  fire  and  turning 


LAST  YEARS  373 

in  —  all  alone  in  your  house.  I  wait  with  some  anxiety  to 
hear  they  have  returned.  Your  account  of  your  street 
car  experiences  is  all  in  your  best  vein.  But  the  idea  of  an 
old  gentleman  past  eighty  being  suffered  by  his  wife  and 
daughter  to  perambulate  the  winter  streets  and  vex  his 
soul  out  buying  Xmas  presents,  is  not  to  be  tolerated. 

I  leave  most  of  this  business  to  my  wife,  who  in  spite  of 
her  bodily  infirmities  manages  somehow,  with  her  im 
mense  nervous  energy,  and  her  maternal  and  grand- 
maternal  yearnings,  to  get  to  Boston  and  buy  a  great 
box  of  presents.  ...  I  have,  however,  done  a  little  shop 
ping  for  this  Xmas.  But  it  is  a  dreadful  business,  unless 
you  begin  early  in  the  season,  taking  Time  by  the  fore 
lock —  or  as  the  Portuguese  phrasebook  has  it,  "  Taking 
the  occasion  for  the  hairs.'9  I  made  several  attempts  to  get 
to  the  counters  in  several  shops  where  there  were  Christ 
mas  cards ;  but  it  is  n't  very  easy  to  carry  on  negotiations 
in  stationery  and  pictures  over  the  heads  of  men  and 
women,  especially  women,  who,  when  they  get  to  the 
counter,  somehow  seem  stuck  there  by  invisible  glue. 
The  fact  is  we  are  overdoing  Christmas  more  and  more 
every  year.  It  used  to  be  a  children's  festival.  Now  we 
must  give  to  old  as  well  as  young.  Happy  are  we  that  it 
comes  but  once  a  year. 

Your  letter  makes  me  long  to  have  a  good  long  talk 
with  you.  Yes,  let  me  have  that  submerged  essay  you  are 
half  tempted  to  write.  Do  write  all  your  fingers  are  capa 
ble  of  doing,  the  more  the  better;  serious  or  gay.  What 
lots  of  things  there  are  we  could  talk  about!  The  fact  is 
there  is  no  knowing  where  to  begin  or  where  to  end, 
things  crowd  so  into  my  head  I  want  to  talk  over  with 
you.  And  this  stiff  pen  and  cold  white  paper  are  not 
exactly  the  most  favorable  mediums  for  communication. 
There  are  fifty  openings  into  fifty  topics,  all  leading  into 


374    CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 

some  chambers  of  thought  and  feeling  common  to  us 
both !  But  where  to  begin?  By  the  way,  what  a  clever  and 
wise  sentence  is  that  of  yours,  "  Doctrinism  is  like  a  bad 
champagne  cork;  it  keeps  the  liquor,  but  lets  the  aroma 
escape."  It  is  just  so.  Men  may  make  celestial  maps  of 
the  heavens,  but  the  heavens  can  never  be  prisoned  in 
diagrams  and  definitions.  That  which  exists  at  the  centre 
of  things  touches  us  at  the  circumference,  in  every  core 
and  avenue  of  feeling,  if  we  are  only  alive.  But  it  is  not  to 
be  adequately  described;  not  to  be  packed  into  a  system 
or  a  creed. 

How  can  we  measure  this  boundless  element  in  which 
we  are  drifting  (yet  not  drifting  I  hope,  except  to  some 
great  terminus,  some  haven)?  And  yet  we  have  intima 
tions  that  come  to  us,  we  don't  know  always  how,  of  great 
realities  that  are  dateless,  measureless.  We  have  glimpses 
—  too  few,  alas,  and  too  crowded  —  of  a  great  Light.  We 
have  perfumes  from  hidden  gardens;  snatches  of  music 
from  unseen  orchestras;  electric  thrillings  from  abiding 
centres,  somewhere;  inspirations  from  something  far 
above  us,  yet  in  some  sense  in  us. 

But  this  is  rather  of  the  essay  style,  and  to  confess,  is 
borrowed  from  an  essay  which  I  should  like  to  read  to  you, 
on  the  "  Evolution  of  the  Moral  Ideal."  In  it  I  have  been 
tempted  to  have  a  little  fling  here  and  there,  at  the  doc 
trines  of  F.  E.  Abbot.  Have  you  read  his  book, 
"Scientific  Theism,"  and  his  other  book,  "The  Way  out 
of  Agnosticism"?  Abbott  thinks  he  has  introduced  revo 
lutionary  methods  into  philosophy.  He  applies  the 
scientific  method  to  everything;  even  to  proving  the  exist 
ence  of  God.  He  has  a  patented  private  scaling-ladder, 
and  gets  in  where  angels  fear  to  tread,  and  makes  God  as 
palpable  and  plain  to  our  intellectual  grasp  and  compre 
hension  as  the  material  atmosphere.  But  I  can't  help 


LAST  YEARS  375 

saying  here,  if  we  can  prove  and  comprehend  thus  the 
Infinite  Soul  of  the  Universe,  why,  we  may  as  well  carry 
him  in  our  pockets,  as  a  South-Sea  Islander  might  do  his 
idol!  .  .  . 

A  deeply  interesting  book  I  have  partly  read  —  it  was 
borrowed,  and  had  to  be  returned  —  is  Dr.  Martineau's 
new  volume,  the  "  Basis  of  Authority  in  Religion."  I  had 
never  read  anything  of  Martineau's  before;  was  greatly 
impressed  with  this.  He  is  profound  and  radical,  and  yet, 
in  the  true  sense,  conservative,  and  is  a  wonderful  master 
of  style.  I  think  I  shall  have  to  buy  the  book. 

And  now  I  wish  you  would  (when  you  feel  able)  sit 
down  and  tell  me  about  your  "  important  discoveries." 
I  have  no  doubt  they  may  be  new  to  me,  for  I  am  the 
greatest  ignoramus  in  much  that  a  Harvard  professor 
might  insist  upon,  in  the  line  of  philosophic  thought.  And 
then,  sometimes,  I  feel  like  dodging  this  whole  matter  of 
questions  and  cross-questions,  and  falling  back  on  a  plain 
level  of  common  sense,  taking  refuge  from  the  flying  mis 
siles,  in  the  holes  and  crevices  of  unquestioning  faith,  in  a 
few  undiscovered  places. 

Well,  here  I  am  essay- writing,  or  pretty  near  it;  and 
there  are  Lizzie  and  Carrie  —  I  hear  them  —  just  got 
home  from  church  —  much  pleased  with  the  preaching 
and  the  music.  But  I  think  I  have  been  to  church  too, 
with  my  dear  brother.  .  .  . 

Uncle  Edward's  Golden  Wedding,  when  the 
house  at  Walnut  Hills,  Cincinnati,  was  in  holiday 
array,  was  a  very  great  event  for  my  father,  his 
dearly  loved  brother.  My  father  came  from  his 
quiet  study  in  Cambridge,  to  meet  here,  in  his  own 
home,  that  intimate  brother,  surrounded  by  his 
family,  his  wife,  children,  and  grandchildren,  by 


376    CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 

nieces  and  nephews  and  old  friends.  It  was  a  beau 
tiful  day,  —  April  15,  —  already  warm  in  Ohio.  The 
house  was  festive  with  yellow  roses  in  profusion. 
The  guests  came  with  their  love  and  friendship  to 
congratulate  this  young-old  pair  of  lovers.  Dear 
Uncle  Edward  was  like  a  young  bridegroom.  His 
partner  had  a  light  in  her  face  as  she  greeted  her 
friends  and  presided  over  this  remarkable  occasion. 
Youthful  she  was  in  spite  of  her  white  hair. 

The  presents  ranged  from  golden  champagne, 
golden  ducats,  to  a  pretty  little  gold  brooch  of  two 
hearts  together.  I  noticed  a  pair  of  dainty  gold  slip 
pers  for  this  dear  old  Cinderella.  There  was  a  painted 
plate  with  a  poem  of  my  father's  upon  it. 

The  two  brothers  met  the  day  before  the  great 
occasion,  and  afterwards  my  father  stayed  on  for  a 
little  visit  at  the  Walnut  Hills  home.  There  they 
renewed  their  youth  by  long  talks,  walks,  and  duets 
on  their  flutes. 

George  William  Curtis  to  Mr.  Cranch 

ASHFIELD,  August  1,  1891. 

Our  day  of  memory  dawns  again.  Here  on  my  book 
shelf  is  the  little  bark  canoe  on  which  is  the  name  of  the 
ship  and  the  immortal  date,  which  Carrie  carved,  and 
five  years  ago  filled  the  canoe  with  flowers. 

I  came  over  from  Albany  three  weeks  ago,  tired  out 
and  with  a  headache  a  month  old.  I  have  done  as  little  as 
I  could  since  I  have  been  here,  but  a  little,  as  you  may 
be  aware,  is  not  much!  Sometime  ago  I  promised  the 
Harpers  to  make  a  little  book  of  pieces  from  the  Easy 
Chair.  The  task  has  been  very  great  for  so  very  small  a 
result. 

Forty-five  years  ago  on  the  glad  waters  of  the  dark 


LAST  YEARS  377 

blue  sea  we  had  other  thoughts  than  book-making  and  it 
is  curious  how  all  to-day  the  thought  of  that  day  of  em 
barkation  has  filled  my  mind.  My  only  trouble  has  been 
that  I  cannot  recall  the  name  of  our  darky  steward  who 
brought  the  gruel  and  the  glass  of  sherry.  My  recollection 
is  blended  of  sherry,  darky,  gruel,  and  "Home  fare  thee 
well."  My  lady  of  the  gold  ear  hoops  and  her  buxom 
children  with  their  expansive  sable  nurse,  are  very  visi 
ble  in  my  memory. 

And  where  are  you  all  and  how  are  you?  When  we 
parted  at  the  South  Ferry  I  hoped  that  I  should  see  you 
while  you  were  still  at  Yonkers  but  this  has  been  really 
the  busiest  year  of  my  life  and  many  of  my  most  blooming 

grapes  turned  out  to  be  sour Tell  Lizzie  that  I  hope 

her  native  Hudson  air  has  restored  to  her  the  health  she 
used  to  have,  and  that  this  day  reminds  her  of  that  old 
love  of  mine  which  is  always  in  the  most  vigorous  health. 

Mr.  Cranch  to  Mrs.  Scott 

CAMBRIDGE,  August  23,  1891. 

We  left  Lexington  yesterday,  a  little  sooner  than  we 
expected.  There  were  a  good  many  discomforts  there,  and 
we  are  glad  to  get  back  to  our  home.  The  weather  has 
been  very  hot,  and  I  don't  know  when  I  have  been  so 
used  up  as  I  was  yesterday,  with  fatigue,  heat  and  illness. 

One  of  our  greatest  annoyances  at  the  Hotel  in  Lex 
ington  was  the  locomotives,  for  we  were  close  to  the  rail 
road  station.  I  never  should  have  taken  rooms  there,  had 
I  thought  of  that  beforehand.  Two  or  three  times  a  day, 
besides  the  hourly  passage  of  the  trains,  there  would  be  a 
freight  train  that  kept  coming  and  pretending  to  go,  and 
then  coming  back  again,  with  tremendous  explosions  of 
steam;  often  in  the  middle  of  the  night  we  had  it,  within 
a  stone's  throw  of  our  windows,  which  we  were  obliged  to 


378    CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 

leave  open  on  account  of  the  heat.  I  used  to  lie  awake 
and  swear  internally.  I  christened  the  place  "The 
Devil's  Kitchen."  Sometimes  the  "Old  Boy"  seemed  to 
be  frying  fish  half  the  night.  On  the  cool  nights  it  was  n't 
so  bad.  Then  we  had  musical  classes  who  kept  up  a  con 
stant  thrumming  and  singing  in  the  great  hall,  and  the 
service  was  very  ineffective  in  various  ways.  But  we 
found  some  pleasant  people,  and  a  gem  of  an  old  doctor, 
Dr.  S.,  a  friendly  and  sympathetic  gentleman,  who  re 
membered  hearing  me  preach  about  fifty  years  ago  in 
Dr.  Furness's  pulpit!  And  I  was  much  pleased  that  he 
should  have  remembered  one  sermon,  in  which  he  says 
I  foreshadowed  Darwin's  doctrine  of  Evolution.  I  have 
a  rather  vague  remembrance  of  it,  but  I  lost  the  Manu 
script.  I  suppose  it  was  among  the  papers  and  books 
burnt  up  in  the  Old  Homestead  fire  in  1857,  while  we  were 
in  Paris.  Besides  my  books  I  must  have  lost  many  valu 
able  letters  and  some  manuscripts  that  were  worth  pre 
serving. 

To  his  brother  Edward 

CAMBRIDGE,  September  5,  1891. 

I  am  very  glad  to  hear  from  Margie  that  you  are  with 
her  and  enjoying  the  change  of  scene  and  the  sea-air. 
Before  you  go  back  to  the  West,  Lizzie  and  I  want  you  to 
make  us  a  little  visit  in  Cambridge,  say,  in  ten  days  or  a 
fortnight  from  now,  when  the  household  wheels  run  a 
little  more  smoothly.  I  have  not  been  at  all  well,  more 
or  less,  for  some  time,  and  this  week  the  horrid  dyspepsia 
is  complicated  with  other  symptoms.  I  have  no  appetite 
and  no  strength  and  no  energy  and  no  ambition.  For  the 
last  few  days  I  have  lived  chiefly  on  tea  and  toast  and 
milk,  and  keep  to  my  armchair  and  Dickens,  for  want  of 
a  better  story-teller. 


LAST  YEARS  379 

If  I  am  well  enough,  I  shall  try  to  run  down  to  "Braw- 
boat"  (the  name  of  N.'s  house  at  Gerrish  Island)  for  a 
few  days.  ...  I  hope  you  will  come  to  us. 

BOSTON,  December  9,  1891. 

Your  letter  is  just  received.  I  am  sitting  up  in  my  easy- 
chair,  and  had  a  quiet  day  yesterday  and  a  quiet  night. 
I  have  suffered  less  pain  lately,  owing  to  the  caution  in 
my  food.  ...  I  have  lost  all  my  strength  and  it  is  only 
with  an  extreme  and  sudden  effort  that  I  can  move  from 
place  to  place.  Dressing  and  undressing  is  an  absurd  labor 
for  me.  But  I  generally  have  quiet  nights,  contriving  to 
patch  out  the  long  hours  with  successive  light  naps  and 
usually  pleasant  dreams.  My  wife  and  daughter  are  in 
valuable  nurses.  We  are  going  back  to  Cambridge  to 
morrow,  with  new  servants  who  promise  well.  .  .  .We 
have  been  very  comfortable  here,  but  shall  be  glad  to  be 
again  at  home.  I  think  I  've  not  been  out  of  my  room  for 
a  fortnight. 

Edward  P.  Cranch  to  his  brother 

CINCINNATI,  January  9,  1892. 

It  is  with  deep  concern  that  I  hear,  through  sister 
Margie,  of  your  prolonged  illness  and  pain  and  weakness. 
I  am  grieved  to  be  so  far  away  from  you,  and  so  little  in  a 
condition  to  be  of  aid  and  comfort.  But  I  am  thankful 
that  you  have  good  nursing  and  attendance,  and  I  hope 
the  doctor  will  at  last  bring  you  through  and  restore  you 
to  health. 

I  must  not  fatigue  you  with  letters,  but  I  want  you  to 
know  that  we  are  thinking  continually  of  you  with  deep 
sympathy  and  praying  for  your  recovery. 

May  God  bless  you  and  sustain  you  and  bring  you  to 
health  again,  is  the  sincere  prayer  of  your  brother. 


380    CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 

George  William  Curtis  to  Mrs.  Scott 

WEST  NEW  BRIGHTON,  STATEN  ISLAND, 
January  15,  1892. 

I  had  heard  from  Mrs.  Brooks,  so  that  your  letter  did 
not  surprise  me,  although  it  is  long  since  I  have  felt  so 
deep  a  pain.  All  that  you  say  is  in  harmony  with  his 
pure  and  gentle  and  noble  life,  and  I  can  only  hope  with 
you  that  when  the  end  shall  come,  it  may  be  as  peaceful 
as  you  describe  his  days. 

It  is  fifty  years  since  I  first  knew  your  father,  and  in  all 
that  time  there  has  been  no  kind  of  break  in  our  regard. 
How  many  of  my  happiest  recollections  are  associated 
with  him  and  your  mother!  and  how  long  now  seems  the 
vista  through  which  I  look  back  to  the  earlier  days!  .  .  . 

My  daughter  and  I  are  fighting  the  grippe.  My  move 
ments  are  therefore  very  uncertain,  but  you  will  give  my 
old  and  constant  love  to  your  dear  father  —  a  love 
blended  with  pride  to  have  been  the  friend  of  a  man  who 
has  never  broken  faith  with  himself,  and  has  walked 
always  with  sublime  faith  the  upward  way. 

Your  mother  knows  my  feeling  for  her,  and  indeed,  for 
all  of  you,  and  with  the  warmest  sympathy  and  affection, 

I  am 

Your  friend  always. 

Mr.  Cranch's  health  began  to  fail  in  the  last  part 
of  the  year  1889.  He  had  then  what  he  thought 
was  dyspepsia.  It  was  the  beginning  of  a  deep- 
seated  trouble.  He  could  not  eat  what  he  was 
accustomed  to.  He  wrote  funny  letters  to  his 
brother  Edward  and  to  his  friend  Mrs.  Stearns.  He 
made  pictures  of  the  "grasshopper  burden"  at 
which  his  friends  laughed.  His  muscular  strength 
held  out  to  the  last  day  of  his  life.  His  elder  daugh- 


o 

? 


00 


i 


LAST  YEARS  381 

ter  was  summoned  from  the  West,  to  take  care  of 
him. 

Mr.  Samuel  Longfellow  found  him  bright  and 
hopeful  about  the  outlook.1  A  piano  was  brought 
into  the  house  and  Mr.  Paine  played  the  beautiful 
classical  music  he  loved.  His  face  was  then  trans 
figured,  and  he  listened  with  an  exalted  look  that 
was  long  after  remembered.  His  friend  Mr.  Boott 
came  and  talked  with  him.  The  elder  two  grandsons 
came  to  see  him  from  their  school,  remaining  quietly 
in  his  room,  caring  for  his  fire  or  his  medicine.  He 
gazed  intently  into  their  faces,  seeming  to  see  their 
future  life  and  getting  encouragement  therefrom. 

The  end  came  peacefully,  like  a  child  going  to 
sleep,  the  morning  of  January  20,  1892. 

George  William  Curtis  to  Mrs.  Cranch 

WEST  NEW  BRIGHTON,  STATEN  ISLAND, 
January  20,  1892. 

N.'s  telegram  has  come,  and  I  am  very  sorry  that  I  am 
not  in  a  condition  to  leave  home,  and  I  must  say  else 
where  what  I  have  to  say  of  the  pure  and  noble  and 
gentle  soul  that  is  gone.  As  I  told  N.,  it  is  just  fifty  years 
since  I  knew  him  first,  and  I  always  treasure  the  recollec 
tion  of  the  charm  of  aspect  and  manner,  and  of  the  ex 
quisite  temperament.  Fresh  and  unwasted  to  the  end 
was  the  bloom  of  youth  that  lay  upon  his  soul,  and  I  shall 
always  hear  that  mellow  voice  and  feel  my  pulse  beating 
with  that  faithful  heart. 

1  Mrs.  Stearns,  in  a  letter  to  Mrs.  Scott,  said:  "My  old  friend,  Mr. 
Longfellow,  wrote  to  me  the  21st  —  'Yes,  Cranch  is  gone.  On  Sunday 
he  told  me,  in  a  few  words,  of  his  outlook  of  faith  into  the  life  beyond. 
It  was  the  sunset  that  he  had  painted.'  This  sunset  reveals  your 
father's  life  and  faith.'* 


382    CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 

My  dear  Lizzie,  there  are  no  words  for  consolation,  and 
I  can  but  vaguely  conceive  what  the  pang  must  be.  The 
loss  of  a  dear  child  I  have  known,  but  not  this  more  in 
timate  and  desolating  sorrow.  Once,  long  ago,  he  spoke 
to  me  of  the  end,  but  with  perfect  trust  in  the  divine 
benignity  of  the  eternal  laws.  Upon  no  human  soul  were 
they  ever  more  legibly  written  than  upon  his,  and  for  all 
who  loved  him,  his  memory  will  be  joy  and  peace. 

Edward  P.  Cranch  to  Mrs.  Scott 

CINCINNATI,  February  8,  1892. 

I  thank  you  most  kindly  for  the  tender  care  you  have 
taken  to  inform  me  of  the  particulars  of  your  dear 
father's  last  moments  on  this  earth.  It  was  a  grief  to  me 
that  my  own  disabilities,  my  extreme  old  age,  and  the 
inclemencies  of  the  winter,  prevented  me  from  being  once 
more  with  him  in  December. 

He  was  very  dear  to  me  from  childhood,  and  his  memory 
will  be  precious  to  me  while  I  live.  During  our  almost 
lifelong  absence  we  kept  up  a  most  affectionate  personal 
correspondence,  and  his  letters  helped  to  instruct  and 
soothe  me  through  all  the  vicissitudes  of  life.  It  is  not 
without  tears  of  the  tenderest  love  that  I  can  even  think 
of  him  or  speak  of  him  to  you,  his  loving  and  thoughtful 
child,  his  kind  nurse  in  sickness.  My  heart  is  full,  and  yet 
I  can  say  no  more  at  present,  except  to  share  my  sym 
pathies  and  sorrows  with  his  family,  his  wife  and  daugh 
ters,  his  two  good  sisters,  and  others  who  knew  and  loved 
him.  My  own  best  thought  now  is  thankfulness  to  God, 
who  granted  me  for  three  quarters  of  a  century,  the  life 
and  brotherly  love  of  so  noble  a  man!  And  oh,  it  is  my 
comfort  to  think  that  if  there  is  in  nature  a  warrant  for 
the  aspirations  of  the  human  soul,  he  is  now  among  the 
blest  in  that  brighter  world  of  his  poetic  dreams!  And 


LAST  YEARS  383 

oh,  that  I  were  worthy  to  hope  that  in  some  capacity  I 
could  again  be  within  hail  of  that  dear  brother,  that  good 
and  patient  spirit! 

Your  dear  father  was  four  years  younger  than  myself, 
and  I  have  no  right  to  expect  to  survive  him  long.  The 
decrepitude  of  age  is  stealing  my  strength  and  brain, 
but  if  there  is  anything  I  could  do  to  perpetuate  his  ex 
ample  and  his  memory  on  the  earth  I  would  gladly 
do  it. 

Soon  after  Mr.  Cranch's  death,  Mr.  Curtis  in  his 
"Easy  Chair"1  paid  his  last  tribute  to  his  old 
friend :  — 

The  Easy  Chair  first  saw  Christopher  Cranch  one 
evening  at  Brook  Farm,  when  the  Arcadian  company  was 
gathered  in  the  little  parlor  of  the  Eyry,  the  brown 
cottage  which  was  the  scene  of  its  social  pleasures.  He 
was  then  nearly  thirty  years  old,  a  man  of  pictur 
esquely  handsome  aspect,  the  curling  brown  hair  cluster 
ing  around  the  fine  brow,  and  the  refined  and  delicate 
features  lighted  with  sympathetic  pleasure.  He  seated 
himself  presently  at  the  piano,  upon  which  he  opened  a 
manuscript  book  of  music,  and  imperfectly  struck  the 
chords  of  an  accompaniment  to  a  song  which  was  wholly 
new  and  striking,  which  he  sang  in  a  rich,  reedy,  barytone 
voice,  and  with  deep  musical  feeling.  There  was  an  ex 
clamation  of  pleasure  and  inquiry  as  he  ended,  and  he 
said  that  it  was  called  the  "Serenade,"  and  was  composed 
by  a  German  named  Schubert.  He  had  transcribed  it 
into  his  book  from  the  copy  of  a  friend. 

Thus  at  the  same  time  the  Easy  Chair  made  the  ac 
quaintance  of  Cranch  and  Schubert.  The  singer  was  still 
a  preacher,  but  was  about  leaving  the  pulpit.  He  was 

1  Harper's  Magazine,  April,  1892. 


384    CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH 

already  a  disciple  of  Transcendentalism,  the  far-reaching 
spiritual  revival  and  impulses  of  that  time. 

Cranch  followed  the  leading  of  his  temperament  and 
talent  in  becoming  an  artist.  He  was,  indeed,  an  artist  in 
various  kinds.  The  diamond  which  the  good  genius 
brought  to  his  cradle,  it  broke  into  many  parts.  He  was 
poet,  painter,  musician,  student,  with  a  supplement  of 
amusing  social  gifts,  and  chief  of  all  was  the  freshness  of 
spirit  which  kept  him  always  young.  The  artistic  tempera 
ment  is  one  of  moods,  and  Cranch  was  often  silent  and 
depressed.  But  it  is  a  temperament  which  is  also  resili 
ent,  and  recovers  its  cheerfulness  as  a  sky  of  April  shines 
through  the  scattering  clouds.  Sometimes  in  later  years, 
when  the  future  which,  seen  from  a  studio,  is  often  far 
from  smiling,  he  came  to  the  room  of  a  friend,  and  there, 
before  a  kindly  fire,  with  a  pipe  of  the  "good  creature," 
and  with  talk  that  ranged  like  a  humming-bird  through 
the  garden,  the  vapors  vanished,  and  the  future,  seen 
from  another  point  of  view,  smiled  and  beckoned. 

For  fifty  years  his  life  was  nomadic.  He  was  much  in 
Europe,  living  chiefly  in  Rome  and  Paris,  with  excursions; 
and  in  America  his  centre  was  New  York,  even  although 
toward  the  close  of  his  life  his  home,  where  he  died,  was  in 
Cambridge.  His  heart  was  disputed  by  painting  and 
poetry.  He  painted  and  sang.  The  early  bent  of  his  mind, 
which  carried  him  into  the  pulpit,  held  him  to  religious 
interests  and  reading,  and  while  he  published  poetry  and 
translated  the  ^Eneid,  he  wrote  grave  papers,  and  in  his 
"Satan,"  and  other  poems,  dealt  with  ethical  principles 
and  religious  speculation.  His  nature  was  singularly 
childlike  and  sensitive,  and  he  was  wholly  in  accord  with 
what  was  really  the  earnest  and  advancing  spirit  of  his 
time.  Doubtless  he  desired  a  larger  public  recognition 


LAST  YEARS  385 

than  he  found,  and  he  saw,  but  without  repining,  that 
others  appeared  to  pass  him  in  that  uncertain  competi 
tion  where  the  prizes  seem  often  to  be  awarded  by  a  fickle 
goddess. 

But  no  such  perception  chilled  his  work  or  daunted  his 
hope.  When  he  was  threescore  and  ten,  his  form  was  still 
lithe  and  erect,  his  step  elastic,  and,  in  a  friendly  circle, 
his  manner  was  as  buoyant  as  ever.  The  diffidence  of 
youth  still  remained,  and  made  his  age  more  winning. 
Nature  in  all  its  aspects  did  not  lose  its  charm  for  him, 
and  although  in  later  years  he  painted  little,  his  interest 
in  books,  in  society,  and  good-fellowship  never  flagged. 
He  was  of  that  choice  band  who  are  always  true  to  the 
ideals  of  youth,  and  whose  hearts  are  the  citadels  which 
conquering  time  assails  in  vain.  It  was  a  long  and  lovely 
life,  and  if  great  fame  be  denied,  not  less  a  beautiful 
memory  remains.  It  was  a  life  gentle  and  pure  and  good, 
and  as  living  hearts  recall  its  sun  and  shade,  they  uncon 
sciously  murmur  the  words  of  Mrs.  Browning,  "perplexed 


music." 


THE   END 


INDEX 


INDEX 


Abbot,  Francis  Ellingwood,  374. 

Adams,  Abigail,  73,  74. 

Adams,  John,  8,  12,  13. 

Adams,  John  Quincy,  9, 10,  72. 

Alboni,  Marietta,  163,  164,  166. 

Alden,  Henry  M.,  294. 

Allen,  Rev.  Joseph  H.,  367. 

Alpine  horn,  206,  207. 

Alps,  the,  203-07. 

Amalfi,  145,  147,  148;  a  sink  of  filth, 

146. 

American  mind,  the,  219. 
Andersen,  Hans  Christian,  221. 
Angelo,  Michael,  115,  151,  152,  324. 
Ariel  and  Caliban,  294. 
Art,  in  America,  183. 
Asbury  Park,  362,  363. 
Atlantic  dinner,  to  Whittier,  298. 
Avalanches,  207. 

Babel,  the  confusion  of,  interpreted  by 

Lowell,  216. 

Ball,  Thomas,  326,  327. 
Ballet,  disliked  by  Cranch,  151,  152. 
Barberini  Palace,  234,  238. 
Barbizon,  223-28. 
Bartolini,  Lorenzo,  152. 
Benzon,  Edward,  189. 
Berlin,  132;  music  in,  249,  250. 
Bigelow,  John,  letter  to  Cranch,  295. 
Bird  and  the  Bell,  The,  156,  157,  159- 

61,  291  n. 

Birds  and  the  Wires,  The,  359,  360. 
Blaine,  James  G.,  351. 
Blue  Grotto,  the,  in  Capri,  143. 
"Bomba"  (Ferdinand  II  of  Naples), 

141. 
Boott,  Francis,  151, 188,  287,  294,  325, 

330,  370,  381;  letters  from,  356,  360; 

letter  to,  360. 
Boston,  47,  48,  77. 
Boston  Radical  Club,  291  n. 
Brook  Farm,  52. 
Brooks,  Rev.  Charles  T.,  letter  to,  349. 


Brooks,  Mrs.  Erastus,  letters  to,  37, 
39,  244,  282,  318,  347.  See  also 
Cranch,  Margaret. 

Brownell,  Frank  T.,  271. 

Browning,  Elizabeth  Barrett,  156, 
157;  son  born  in  Florence,  162;  letter 
to,  157;  letters  from,  158,  159,  197. 

Browning,  Robert,  friendship  of  the 
Cranches  with,  156,  157,  161-63, 
164,  194,  214,  215;  Memorial  Serv 
ice  in  King's  Chapel,  368;  Edward 
Cranch  on,  368,  369;  letter  from, 
195. 

Buckle,  Henry  Thomas,  366. 

Bull,  Ole,  89-91. 

Burlingame,  E.  L.,  359. 

"Burlybones,"  203. 

Burne-Jones,  Sir  Edward,  310. 

Cambridge,  278-305;  social  life  in, 
278,  279;  never  such  a  place  for 
bells,  284;  Cranch's  study  in,  338, 
339,  364. 

Capri,  143;  trip  to,  146,  147. 

Carlyle,  Thomas,  63. 

Carnival,  the  Roman,  124,  153,  154, 
231,  240. 

Cerrito,  Francesca,  166,  167. 

Channing,  William  Henry,  44,  45,  75 
86-88,  248. 

Chester,  England,  306,  307. 

Child,  Lydia  Maria,  89,  90. 

Christmas  shopping,  373. 

Church,  Frederic  E.,  242. 

Cincinnati  Harmonic  Society,  282. 

Civil  Service  Reform,  351-53. 

Clarke,  Gardiner  Hubbard,  237,  240. 

Clarke,  James  Freeman,  39-41;  letters 
to,  34,  44. 

Claude  Lorrain,  71. 

Cleveland,  Grover,  351,  353. 

Coan,  Titus  Munson,  271. 

Coleman,  Samuel,  346,  347. 

Coliseum,  the,  at  Rome,  105,  106. 


390 


INDEX 


Columbus,  Christopher,  103,  104. 

Conway,  Moncure  D.,  308. 

Copley,  John  Singleton,  202. 

Coquelin,  B.  C.,  322. 

Coram,  Sir  Thomas,  312. 

Correggio,  176,  217,  318. 

Cousin,  Victor,  50. 

Cranch,  Abigail  Adams  (Mrs.  W.  G. 
Eliot),  4,  31;  letter  to,  229. 

Cranch,  Caroline  Amelia,  born,  175; 
an  artist,  295,  300,  301,  308,  319; 
portrait  of  C.  P.  C.,  347;  portrait  of 
John  S.  Dwight,  348. 

Cranch,  Christopher  (English),  288, 
289. 

Cranch,  Christopher  Pearse,  birth,  3; 
boyhood,  3,  4;  first  steps  in  drawing 
and  versifying,  5,  6;  ancestry,  6-17; 
enters  Columbian  College,  18;  goes 
to  Harvard  Divinity  School,  19;  the 
day's  work,  20;  in  Andover,  Maine, 
21-24;  in  Richmond,  Virginia,  24- 
27;  Enosis,  29,  30;  in  St.  Louis,  31 ;  in 
Cincinnati  and  Peoria,  32;  preaches 
in  Louisville  and  edits  Western 
Messenger,  36-39;  judgment  of  him 
self,  40,  42;  in  Boston,  47,  48;  on 
Transcendentalism,  49-51;  visits 
Brook  Farm,  52,  53;  a  ventriloquist, 
52,  359;  a  devotee  of  music,  52,  77, 
78,  184,  222,  246,  273,  274,  294,  321, 
340,  351,  358,  360;  personal  appear 
ance,  53;  writes  poem  for  two  hun 
dredth  anniversary  of  Quincy,Mass., 
54,  55;  sends  poems  to  Emerson,  58, 

59,  63;  takes  to  landscape  painting, 

60,  66,  67,  70,  83,  89;  suffers  from 
trouble  in  head  and  brain,  66,  69, 
70;    tries    modelling    in    clay,    67; 
preaches  at  Fishkill-on-the-Hudson, 
72;  becomes  engaged  to  Elizabeth 
De  Windt,  75,  76;  thinks  of  leaving 
the  ministry,  77,  79,  80,  82,  86;  mar 
riage,   83-85;   interested  in  Social 
Reform,  88. 

First  visit  to  Europe,  91-171;  his 
journal  at  sea,  93-102;  in  Genoa, 
102-04;  in  Rome,  104-18;  122-26; 
night  studies  from  life,  105,  107; 
birth  of  a  son,  117;  at  Palestrina, 
119, 120;  at  Olevano,  121;  at  Naples, 


136-41;  ascends  Vesuvius,  136-38; 
goes  to  Pompeii,  139-41;  in  Sor 
rento,  142-49;  in  Florence,  150-70; 
begins  The  Bird  and  the  Bell,  156; 
friendship  with  the  Brownings,  156- 
63. 

Back  in  New  York,  172;  drowning 
of  Mrs.  Cranch's  mother,  173,  174; 
birth  of  a  daughter,  175;  progress 
in  art,  179,  183;  translation  from 
Heine,  184;  correspondent  of  New 
York  Express,  185;  The  Flower  and 
the  Bee,  185,  186;  writes  "Farewell 
to  America"  for  Jenny  Lind,  189; 
plans  to  revisit  Europe,  198;  settles 
down  in  Paris,  200;  exhibits  and 
sells  pictures  there,  201 ;  correspond 
ent  of  the  New  York  Evening  Post, 
202;  visits  Switzerland,  203-07, 
233,  234;  back  in  Paris,  210;  goes  to 
London  with  Lowell,  212;  son  born 
in  Paris,  214;  The  Last  of  the  Hugger- 
muggers,  215,  218,  220;  death  of  his 
father,  215;  gets  literary  advice  from 
W.  W.  Story,  220,  221;  strange 
dream  about  his  brother  Edward, 
222;  at  Barbizon,  223-28;  in  Rome 
again,  234-42;  makes  a  capillary 
reform,  239;  in  Venice,  245-47. 

His  feeling  toward  slavery,  253; 
returns  to  New  York,  254;  criticises 
the  Pre-Raphaelites,  255;  death  of 
his  son  George,  258,  259;  entertains 
Curtis  at  "Mon  Bijou,"  259-61; 
silver  wedding,  262,  263;  Gridiron- 
ville,  266-69,  377;  translates  the 
^Eneid,  271,  272;  in  Cambridge, 
276-305;  sends  a  landscape  to  Em 
erson,  280,  281;  urges  his  brother 
Edward  to  publish,  283,  284;  views 
as  to  the  hereafter,  285,  286,  302, 
358,  365,  381 ;  obtains  old  letters  of 
his  father  and  grandfather,  287,  288; 
writes  libretto  for  the  Cantata  of 
America,  290,  293;  The  Bird  and  the 
Bell,  291;  lone,  294;  death  of  his 
son  Quincy,  295,  296;  takes  part  in 
Sunday  afternoon  meetings  for 
liberals,  299;  translates  Eclogues  of 
Virgil  and  some  of  Horace's  Odes, 
300;  keeps  house  in  R.  W.  Gilder's 


INDEX 


391 


rooms,  301;  at  Magnolia,  303;  poem 
to  O.  W.  Holmes,  304. 

Third  visit  to  Europe,  306;  in 
London,  307-15;  in  Paris,  315-23, 
330-36;  in  Rome,  324;  in  Florence, 
325-27;  in  Venice,  327-29;  in  Milan, 
329;  writes  about  dreams,  333,  334; 
returns  to  America,  336. 

His  Cambridge  study,  338,  339, 
364;  his  moods,  339,  340,  342;  some 
characteristics,  339,  340,  341;  his 
books,  341;  some  juvenile  depravi 
ties  in  art,  345,  346;  portrait  by 
Caroline  Cranch,  347;  meets  Clinton 
Scollard,  348;  his  interest  in  Civil 
Service  Reform  and  politics,  351-53; 
revisits  Washington  after  twenty- 
three  years,  353,  354;  goes  to  As- 
bury  Park,  362;  reads  poem  at  two 
hundred  and  fiftieth  anniversary  of 
First  Church  of  Quincy,  364;  essay 
on  the  Unconscious  Life,  366,  367; 
delivers  address  at  Browning  Me 
morial  Service  in  King's  Chapel,  368; 
celebrates  seventy-seventh  birthday, 
370;  on  Christmas  shopping  and 
giving,  373;  failing  health,  378,  379, 
380;  death,  381 ;  Curtis's  tribute  to, 
in  the  "Easy  Chair,"  383-85. 

Autobiography  quoted,  3-7,  18, 
19,  40,  66,  104,  117,  119,  124,  142- 
53, 155, 157, 172,  175,  189,  200,  208, 
254,  278;  his  work  as  a  poet,  54,  58, 
63,  156, 184,  185,  189, 191,  262,  270, 
275,  291,  292,  293,  298,  302,  315, 
334,  335,  338,  343,  349,  354,  356, 
359,  364,  371,  372;  as  an  artist,  60, 
66,  67,  70,  83,  89,  105, 107, 179, 183, 
201,  221,  230,  232,  236,  255,  280,  281, 
317,  319,  345,  346,  359. 

Letters:  to  his  father,  49;  to  his 
wife,  212,  232-42,  245;  to  Mrs. 
Brooks,  37,  39,  244,  318,  347;  to 
Mrs.  Eliot,  229;  to  Edward  Cranch, 
80,  83,  91,  178,  190,  210,  222,  274, 
283-89,  293,  297,  300-03,  306,  333, 
346,  351-54,  358,  364-68,  372,  378; 
to  Mrs.  Scott,  269,  273,  298,  354, 
358,  362,  377;  to  Francis  Boott, 
360;  to  C.  T.  Brooks,  349;  to  Mrs. 
Browning,  157;  to  James  Freeman 


Clarke,  34,  44;  to  G.  W.  Curtis,  252, 
255,  275,  276,  292,  294,  296,  303, 
315,  336,  369;  to  Anna  Dixwell,  357; 
to  J.  S.  Dwight,  21,  24,  56,  57,  68, 
70,  75,  79,  82,  84,  88-91,  251,  344;  to 
R.  W.  Emerson,  58,  60,  63,  280;  to 
O.  B.  Frothingham,  279;  to  O.  W. 
Holmes,  350;  to  Catherine  H. 
Myers,  32,  41,  74,  182;  to  Julia 
Myers,  35,  47,  55,  67,  77,  182;  to 
Mrs.  George  L.  Stearns,  184,  198, 
214. 

Cranch,  Mrs.  C.  P.,  her  Journal 
quoted,  106-15,  121,  170;  drowning 
of  her  mother,  173,  174;  Curtis's 
opinion  of,  257;  letters  from  Mar 
garet  Fuller,  142,  168;  from  Mrs. 
Browning,  158;  from  Mr.  Cranch, 
212,  232-42,  245.  See  also  De  Windt, 
Elizabeth. 

Cranch,  Edward  P.,  brother  of  C.  P.  C., 
4,5,  15,  18,  19;  advised  to  publish, 
283;  visits  Europe  in  his  eighty-first 
year,  365;  on  Browning,  368,  369; 
golden  wedding,  375,  376;  letter  to 
Mrs.  Brooks,  282;  letter  to  Mrs. 
Scott,  382;  letters  to  C.  P.  C.,  345, 
368,  379;  letters  from  C.  P.  C.  to, 
80,  83,  91,  178,  190,  210,  222,  274, 
283-89,  293,  297,  300-03,  306,  333, 
346,  351-54,  358,  364-68,  372,  378. 

Cranch,  Elizabeth  (Mrs.  Rufus 
Dawes),  4,  244. 

Cranch,  George  William,  born,  117; 
gets  a  lieutenant's  commission,  258; 
death,  258,  259. 

Cranch,  John,  brother  of  C.  P.  C.,  4, 
18,  19,  66,  365. 

Cranch,  Leonora  (Mrs.  Scott),  born, 
145;  letters  to,  269,  273,  298,  354, 
358,  362,  377. 

Cranch,  Margaret,  4,  39,  45.  See  also 
Brooks,  Mrs.  Erastus. 

Cranch,  Mary  (Mrs.  Richard  Nor 
ton),  3. 

Cranch,  Quincy  Adams,  276,  277;  born 
in  Paris,  214;  killed  on  shipboard, 
295,  296. 

ranch,  Hon.  Richard,  grandfather  of 
C.  P.  C.,  8,  9,  21;  letters  of,  287, 
288. 


392 


INDEX 


Cranch,  Richard,  brother  of  C.  P.  C., 
3,  4;  drowned,  5,  6. 

Cranch,  Judge  William,  father  of 
C.  P.  C.,  6,  7,  9-17,  185;  married  to 
Ann  Greenleaf,  12;  letter  to,  49; 
death,  215. 

Cranch,  Mrs.  William,  6,  7,  12,  17. 

Cranch,  William,  brother  of  C.  P.  C.,  4. 

Cropsey,  G.  F.,  145. 

Curtis,  Burrill,  112,  113. 

Curtis,  George  William,  goes  to  Eu 
rope  with  Cranch,  91,  93,  110,  112, 
170,  177;  one  of  the  editors  of  Put 
nam's  Magazine,  191,  229;  marriage, 
229;  advice  to  literary  aspirants, 
243;  visits  Cranch,  259-61;  poems 
to,  315,  332,  343;  portrait  by  Cum 
min,  369;  kept  collection  of  photo 
graphs  of  himself,  370;  tribute  to 
Cranch  in  the  "Easy  Chair,"  383- 
85;  letters  to  Mrs.  Cranch,  163,  347, 
381;  to  Mrs.  Scott,  380;  to  Cranch, 
127-35,  228,  242,  257,  258,  259,  261, 
265,  266,  270,  276,  289,  292,  297, 
305,  337,  342,  355,  361,  376;  from 
Cranch,  252,  255,  275,  276,  292,  294, 
296,  303,  315,  336,  369. 

Curtis,  Lt.-Col.  Joseph  Bridgham,  252. 

Cushman,  Charlotte,  238,  239,  241. 

Darley,  F.  O.  C.,  73. 

Dawes,  Rufus,  244. 

Dawes,  Hon.  Thomas,  11. 

De  Windt,  Elizabeth,  72,  73,  74,  76; 

marriage,  84.  See  also  Cranch,  Mrs. 

C.  P. 
De  Windt,  John  P.,  72;  homestead 

burned,  202,  203. 

De  Windt,  Mrs.  John  P.,  a  grand 
daughter  of  John  Adams,  73,  74; 

drowned,  173. 
De  Windt,  Peter,  315. 
Dickinson,  Lowes,  R.  A.,  313. 
Dixwell,   Anna,  326,  331;    letter  to, 

357. 

Doria,  Andrea,  103, 104. 
Downing,  A.  J.,  75,  84,  174;  drowned, 

173. 

Dreams,  43,  58,  222,  306,  333. 
Dupont,  M.,  333. 
Duran,  Carolus,  319. 


Duveneck,  Frank,  325,  357,  360,  371. 

Dwight,  John  S.,  20,  21,  79,  82, 
370;  portrait  painted  by  Caroline 
Cranch,  348;  letter  from,  247;  let 
ters  to,  21,  24,  56,  57,  68,  70,  75,  79, 
82,  84,  88-91,  251,  344. 

Eclipse,  an,  of  the  moon,  227,  228. 

Eliot,  George,  320,  321. 

Eliot,  William  Greenleaf,  19,  31;  letter 

from,  272. 
Ellsler,  Fanny,  167. 
Emerson,  N.  B.,  271. 
Emerson,  Ralph  Waldo,  41,  47,  51,  58, 

60,  61;  Holmes's  Life  of,  350;  letters 

from,  59,  61,  64,  281;  letters  to,  58, 

60,  63,  280. 
Everett,  Prof.  C.  C.,  299,  350. 

"Farewell  to  America,"  189. 
Ferdinand  II  of  Naples  ("Bomba"), 

141. 
Fireworks  at  the  Castle  of  San  An- 

gelo,  117. 
Florence,  150-68;  the  Carnival,  153, 

154. 

Flower  and  the  Bee,  The,  185,  186. 
Forbes,  Mrs.  J.  M.,  281. 
Foundling  Hospital,  London,  311,  312. 
Frothingham,  Octavius  Brooks,  301; 

his  Life  of  Theodore  Parker,  279, 

280;  letter  from,  372;  letter  to,  279- 
Froude,  J.  A.,  308. 
Fuller,  Margaret,  61,  63,  280;  death, 

173,    196;    newspaper    controversy 

about,  352;  letters  to  Mrs.  Cranch, 

142,  168. 

Furness,  James,  46. 
Furness,  William,  46. 

Garcia,  Maria  Felicita  (Mme.  Mali- 
bran),  133. 

Garibaldi,  Giuseppe,  246,  247. 

Gay,  Walter,  317,  320,  322. 

Gericke,  Wilhelm,  351. 

German  language,  difficulties  of,  216. 

Gesticulations  of  Italians,  155,  156. 

Gilder,  Richard  Watson,  301. 

Girandola,  117. 

Gluck,  Christoph  Wilibald  von,  133, 
134. 


INDEX 


393 


Goldschmidt,  Otto,  189. 

Grahn,  Lucile,  167. 

Greeley,  Horace,  254. 

Green,  Colonel,  237. 

Greenleaf,  Ann  (Mrs. William  Cranch), 

6,  7,  12,  17. 
Greenleaf,  James,  5,  7. 
Greenleaf,  John,  21. 
Greenleaf,  Mary  (Mrs.  George  Minot 

Dawes),  21. 

Greenleaf,  Richard,  287. 
Greenough,  Horatio,  152,  213. 
Greenough,  John,  80. 
Gridironville,  266-69,  377, 
Grisi,  Carlotta,  167. 
Griswold,  C.  C.,  255. 
Grosvenor  Gallery,  London,  310. 
Grotto  of  San  Francisco,  near  Amalfi, 

148. 
Guide's  Aurora,  111. 

Hartmann,  K.  R.  E.  von,  366. 
Harvard  College,  two  hundred  and 

fiftieth  anniversary,  355. 
Hawthorne,  Julian,  352. 
Hedge,  Rev.  Frederick  H.,  29,  299, 

352. 
Heine,    Heinrich,    translation   of   his 

Fichtenbaum.,  184. 
Hicks,  Thomas,  73, 107, 124, 170, 171, 

242. 

Higginson,  Col.  T.  W.,  352. 
Hoffman,  Charles  Fenno,  75,  84. 
Holmes,  John,  322,  323,  370. 
Holmes,   Oliver   Wendell,    355,    361; 

letter  from,  304;  poem  to,  by  C.  P. 

C.,  304;  letter  to,  350. 
Hosmer,  Harriet,  232. 
Houghton,  H.  O.,  298. 
Hunt,  William  M.,  313. 
Huntington,  William  H.,  200, 317, 320. 

lone,  294. 

James,  Henry,  Jr.,  328. 
James,  Wilkinson,  258. 
James,  William,  303,  366;  letter  to 
Cranch,  342. 

Keats,  George,  brother  of  John  Keats, 
37,  38,  44. 


Keats,  John,  164;  his  Endymion,  43; 
portrait  of,  342;  poem  by  C.  P.  C.f 
343. 

Kemble,  Fanny,  47. 

Kensett,  John  F.,  107,  242. 

Kensington  Museum,  308,  309. 

Kirby,  Georgiana  Bruce,  356;  quoted, 
53. 

Knoop,  Herr,  a  master  of  the  violon 
cello,  78. 

Kobboltozo,  231,  262. 

Lablache,  Luigi,  163,  166. 

Lamartine,  163,  165,  166. 

Landor,  Walter  Savage,  164. 

Last  of  the  Huggermuggers,  The,  215, 
218,  220. 

Laugel,  M.  and  Mme.,  322. 

Leonardo,  the  Last  Supper,  329. 

Letters,  old  family,  287. 

Lexington,  Mass.,  266-69,  377. 

Lind,  Jenny,  127,  128,  166;  Cranch 
writes  "Farewell  to  America"  for 
her,  189. 

London,  a  wonderfully  interesting 
city,  307;  museums  and  galleries, 
308,  309,  310;  parks,  309;  climate, 
309;  Foundling  Hospital,  311,  312; 
the  Tower,  313,  314. 

Longfellow,  Samuel,  381. 

Lowell,  James  Russell,  201,  202,  355; 
takes  Cranch  to  London,  212,  214; 
his  opinion  of  the  confusion  of  Babel, 
216;  fiftieth  birthday,  264;  letters 
from,  213,  215,  256,  257,  262,  264, 
270. 

Lowell,  Walter,  209. 

Lucca,  193. 

Malibran,  Mme.,  133. 

Mann,  Horace,  47. 

Martineau,  Harriet,  63. 

Martineau,  James,  375. 

Masaccio,  frescoes  by,  153. 

May,  Edward  H.,  316,  317,  320,  338. 

Mazzini,  Joseph,  170. 

McEntee,  Jervis,  173. 

Mead,  Edwin  D.,  364. 

Mendelssohn,  Felix,  death  of,  128-30. 

Meudon,  316. 

Miller,  William,  48. 


394 


INDEX 


Moccoletti,  126. 

"Mon  Bijou,"  259. 

Morse,  Sydney  H.,  299. 

Motley,  John  Lothrop,  361. 

Munich,  178. 

Munkdcsy,  Mihaly,  310,  319,  330,  331. 

Myers,  Catherine  H.,  letters  to,  32, 41, 

74,  182. 
Myers,  Julia,  letters  to,  35,  41,  47,  55, 

67,  77,  182. 

Naples,  136-41;  civil  war  in,  144,  145. 
National  Gallery,  London,  310,  314. 
Newspaper,  morning,  how   to   read, 

261. 

New  York,  172, 183,  254 
Norton,  Andrews,  49. 
Norton,  Richard,  3. 

Offenbach,  Jacques,  322. 
Olevano,  120,  121. 

Ormuzd  and  Ahriman,  349,  350,  355, 
367. 

Pcestum,  147. 

Paine,  John  K.,  294,  381. 

Palestrina,  119,  120. 

Paris,   Cranch  spends  ten  years  in, 

200-53;  Universal  Exhibition  (1855), 

201;  the  place  for  an  artist,  210; 

Cranch  visits  again,  315-22. 
Parker,  Theodore,  58,  291  n;  Froth- 

ingham's  Life  of,  279,  280. 
Perkins,  Charles  C.,  124,  239. 
Perkins,  James  Handasyde,  32,  44. 
Pickwick  Papers,  39. 
Pius  IX,  Pope,  107, 108, 142, 187. 
Planchette,  a  liar,  261. 
Poker,  359. 
Pompeii,  139-41. 
Poor,  John  A.,  69. 
Porter,  Peter  A.,  175. 
Powers,  Hiram,  67,  150,  152. 
Preston,     Mary     (Mrs.    George    L. 

Stearns),  27-30. 
Putnam's  Magazine,  191. 
Puvis  de  Chavannes,  Pierre   CScile, 

335. 

Rachel,  Elisa,  167,  168. 
Retzsch,  Moritz,  217. 


Revolution,  European  (1848),  134, 135. 

Rhodes,  Christopher,  31. 

Ripley,  George,  311. 

Rome,  104-18,  122,  186-89,  324;  the 
Carnival,  153, 154,  231,  240;  theatri 
cals  by  the  Story s  and  friends,  188; 
the  only  place  to  live  in,  232. 

Rubinstein,  Anton,  273,  274. 

Russell,  Prof.  W.  C.,  358,  359. 

Saint-Leon,  M.,  166,  167. 

St.  Peter's,  Rome,  106, 107. 

Salvini,  Tommaso,  231,  241. 

San  Marco,  Church  of,  Venice,  328, 
329. 

Sargent,  John  T.,  291. 

Satan,  281,  349,  354. 

Scherer,  Edward,  320,  321. 

Schumann,  Clara,  249. 

Scollard,  Clinton,  sonnet  to  Cranch, 
348,  349. 

Scott,  Mrs.  Leonora  Cranch.  See 
Cranch,  Leonora. 

Shaw,  Rev.  John,  9. 

Sheffield,  Massachusetts,  173, 178, 179. 

Slavery,  252,  253. 

Sorrento,  142-49;  a  plantation  of 
orange  and  lemon  trees,  142. 

Stearns,  Major  George  L.,  27,  28. 

Stearns,  Mrs.  George  L.,  27-30,  370, 
381;  letters  to,  184,  198,  214. 

Stearns,  Rev.  Mr.,  of  Hingham,  57 

Stedman,  Edmund  Clarence,  356. 

Stone,  Rev.  Thomas  T.,  69,  70. 

Story,  William  Wetmore,  169,  170, 
214;  makes  generous  offer  to 
Cranch,  181;  private  theatricals  in 
Rome,  188;  death  of  his  son  Joseph, 
208,  209;  writes  law  books,  219; 
gives  literary  advice  to  Cranch,  220, 
221 ;  occupies  Barberini  Palace,  234, 
238;  Cranch's  opinion  of  his  statues, 
235;  reads  one  of  his  own  poems, 
239;  letters  from,  175,  180,  186, 192, 
208,  211,  218,  220,  231. 

Street-cries  in  Italy,  154,  155. 

Sturgis,  Russell,  201,  202;  entertains 
Cranch  in  London,  213,  310. 

Sunday  Afternoon  Club,  299,  366. 

Sunsets,  American,  172,  175. 

Swift,  Lindsay,  49;  quoted,  52. 


INDEX 


395 


Taylor,  Bayard,  189. 
Taylor,  Henry,  164,  165. 
Taylor,  Jeremy,  209. 
Terry,  Luther,  110,  111. 
Tessero-Guidone,  Signora,  327. 
Thackeray,  William  Makepeace,  201, 

202;  lectures  in  America,  219. 
Thayer,  Alexander  W.,  249,  250,  329. 
Thoreau,  Henry  D.,  60. 
Titian,  paintings  by,  at  Dresden,  217; 

the  Entombment,  318. 
Tivoli,  120. 

Transcendentalism,  49-51. 
Turner,  J.  M.  W.,  157,  314,  315. 
Twain,  Mark,  344. 

Vannier,     Madame,     inn-keeper    at 

Barbizon,  224-28. 
Vatican,  the,  108,  109,  125. 


Vaughan,  John  C.,  44,  45. 

Vesuvius,  136-38,  145. 

Vienna,  177,  178. 

Villa  Borghese,  123. 

Villa  di  Angelis,  Sorrento,  142, 143. 

Washington  city,  revisited,  353,  354. 

Watch,  Cranches'  dog,  4. 

Webster,  Noah,  12. 

Weiss,  John,  299. 

Western  Messenger,  The,  36-38. 

Whitney,  Rev.  George,  56. 

Whittier,  John  G.,  Atlantic  dinner  to, 

298. 

Women,  in  Italy,  146,  193. 
Woolson,  Constance  Fenimore,  356; 

letter  to  Mr.  Boott,  357. 

Ziem,  Felix,  208,  244,  247. 


CAMBRIDGE  .  MASSACHUSETTS 
U   .   S   .  A 


GENERAL  LIBRARY- U.C.  BERKELEY 


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